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The Night is Forever
Heather Graham


A Ghost Rider in the Sky?What happened here, on a historic horse ranch outside Nashville, Tennessee, during the Civil War? And what’s happening now? Olivia Gordon works at the Horse Farm, a facility that assists patients with mental and physical recovery; her specialty is animal therapy. She’s always loved her job, always felt safe here… until now. Because people are dying, starting with the facility’s founder, whose body is discovered in a ravine on the property – site of a massacre in 1862.And before every death, Liv sees a horse and rider, wearing a soldier’s garb, in the night sky… Warning? Omen? Or clue?Liv calls in her cousin Malachi and his Krewe, an FBI unit of paranormal investigators, to help her identify suspects and motives – to discover the truth. New Krewe member Dustin Blake, an ex-Savannah cop, knows they need Liv’s involvement in the case, yet he’s worried about her safety. Because he and Liv quickly become more than colleague… and he doesn’t want to lose her to the endless night.







A Ghost Rider in the Sky?

What happened here, on a historic ranch outside Nashville, during the Civil War? And what’s happening now?

Olivia Gordon works at the Horse Farm, a facility that assists patients with mental and physical recovery; her specialty is animal therapy. She’s always loved her job, always felt safe…until now.

People are dying, starting with the facility’s founder, whose body is discovered in a ravine on the property—site of a massacre in 1862. And before every death, Liv sees a horse and rider, wearing a soldier’s garb, in the night sky…. Warning? Omen? Or clue?

Liv calls in her cousin Malachi and his Krewe, an FBI unit of paranormal investigators, to discover the truth. New Krewe member Dustin Blake knows they need Liv’s involvement in the case, yet he’s worried about her safety. Because he and Liv quickly become more than colleagues…and he doesn’t want to lose her to the endless night.


Praise for the novels of

New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“Suspenseful and dark.…The transitions between past and present flow seamlessly, and the main characters are interesting.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Unseen

“A fast-paced story, involving history and ghost stories. Graham is skilled at creating intriguing, mature characters involved in challenging situations.”

—Lesa’s Book Critiques on The Unseen

“I am amazed at Graham’s ability to create a magical story that works so well in the present when part of the facts lie in the past. The Uninvited is a saucy romantic murder mystery with ghosts taking center stage.”

—Joyfully Reviewed

“The paranormal romantic mystery is exhilarating and fast-paced.”

—Genre Go Round on The Unspoken

“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest.… Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing.”

—Booklist on Ghost Walk

“Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance and the paranormal—all of it nail-biting.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Vision

“This book captivates its reader. [It’s] one the reader will not want to put down until finished.”

—Paranormal Haven on Let the Dead Sleep


The Night is Forever

Heather Graham




www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Dedicated with love to Al Perry—

for his patience—no matter what

we drag him into!

And especially for

Bryee-Annon Victoria Pozzessere,

my daughter, who first showed

me the wonders of Nashville

and Tennessee and introduced

me to something equally

wonderful—horse therapy.

Love you so much, baby!


Contents

Prologue (#u3ea5926b-bece-5e72-83f7-6566b6354bf0)

Chapter 1 (#u7f3d80bd-51f7-50fa-83e6-0b1297a482a3)

Chapter 2 (#u03d7d765-e419-5c16-8482-4bcab0609145)

Chapter 3 (#ud58a028a-0f7e-5391-85b2-55f952bd2b14)

Chapter 4 (#ubc15ff0c-3eba-58de-9954-9a677d987dce)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue

There he was, Marcus Danby, dead in the ravine.

His eyes were open and he stared up at heaven. His limbs were twisted at odd angles, making him look like an image created by a mad artist.

“Marcus!” Olivia Gordon cried his name as she dismounted and swiftly scampered down the rocks to his side. Like an idiot, she hunkered down by him, touching him, speaking, praying that somehow he was still alive as he lay there.

But, of course, he wasn’t. She studied his face—weathered, worn, beautiful with character—and silent tears slid down her cheeks.

“Marcus,” she whispered, closing his eyes. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do—maybe the medical examiner needed to see him exactly as he’d been found. But she wasn’t leaving him now and she couldn’t bear to see his eyes open. He’d been staring up at the heavens, she thought. Staring up at the sky above him.

Ironically, the sky was exceptionally beautiful tonight. It was one of those twilights when the moon rose before the sun set completely, and as the sun continued its fall, sinking lower and lower into the horizon, a soft, opaque glow seemed to settle over the landscape. The hills here, just outside Nashville, Tennessee, appeared to be part of some kind of fairy-tale kingdom. Their rich shades of autumn—the gold, orange and crimson leaves on the trees—highlighted the emerald-green grasses. A slight coolness touched the air, making it clear and comfortable to breathe.

The sky and the landscape were what Marcus had seen as he died, Olivia reminded herself. It was why Marcus had loved this area so much, this place where he’d been born. Maybe there was something fitting in that, something poetic.

And yet... No question, Marcus had loved this countryside. He’d known it intimately. For that very reason, it seemed impossible that he’d fallen into this rocky ravine when he’d followed these same paths, on foot or on horseback, almost every day of his life.

Olivia heard Shiloh paw the ground. She looked up at her horse; he was obviously sensing her emotions, the change in her energy.

“Easy, boy, easy,” Olivia said softly. “We have to wait here.” Fresh tears stung her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. She wanted to rise up and throw her arms around Shiloh’s neck, feel the warmth of this living creature.

That, she knew, would be life-affirming.

Like all the animals at the Horse Farm—the therapy center Marcus Danby had founded and where Olivia worked—Shiloh was a rescue horse. Near starvation, he’d been found in the Florida Redlands. Animal activists from the state had arranged his transport to the Nashville area and there was something about him that had made him special to Olivia from the first time she’d seen him. He’d been a pile of bones, wild and terrified of people; he’d tried, more than once, to run her into a building to get her off his back. While the focus of the Horse Farm was teaching people to trust again—through their relationships with animals—Shiloh was, to Olivia, one of her best success stories.

Marcus had always told her that what she’d done with Shiloh was impressive, but what she managed with people was equally beautiful.

“Oh, Marcus, what did you do?” she whispered. He’d probably been missing long before any of them realized he was gone, because Marcus kept no set hours, didn’t see patients and came and went as he chose. He’d founded the Horse Farm; it was his passion and his life. But while he loved to make sudden appearances and engage with patients, he did so in his own time and on his own terms. He’d been a wreck of a man himself—bipolar, an addict, homeless and an ex-con—when he’d found a horse on the small farm he’d, for some reason, been left through a family inheritance. Like Shiloh, the animal had been starved and beaten by a cruel master and was terrified. In earning the horse’s trust and love, Marcus had learned to care about himself. He’d told Olivia once that he’d been so afraid something horrible would happen to the horse without him, he’d become determined to live.

In saving that horse, Marcus had saved himself. It wasn’t that he hadn’t grown up around animals; he had. His father had raised some of the finest racing horses in Tennessee. Maybe because he’d had money as a child, Marcus had known that happiness had nothing to do with wealth. When he inherited the family land, he had no interest in racehorses. He cared about people—damaged people. He’d been miraculously fixed by a horse and he went on to find out how to help others in the same way.

Olivia adored Marcus.

Had adored him, she told herself. No, she did adore him. All that he’d been and all that he’d taught her would stay with her forever.

He’d lived in a small house on the property, about a quarter mile from the stables, and the staff at the Horse Farm only knew he was gone because Sammy, his golden retriever—another rescue animal—had come to the stables, wet, tail between his legs, anxious. He’d been limping because he’d managed to gash his left leg quite badly.

Aaron Bentley, managing director of the Horse Farm, had tried to believe that Marcus had driven somewhere and Sammy had hurt himself trying to catch up with him.

But Marcus hadn’t driven anywhere—not on his own, anyway. His old Ford pickup was still in the driveway. And Olivia knew Marcus would’ve died before allowing any harm to come to his beloved Sammy.

So they’d all become extremely worried. Aaron had called in the local authorities and they’d set up a search; Olivia had the backwoods acreage, while others had been assigned the pond area, the pastures and the adjoining farms, businesses and residences.

They had now been out searching for hours in their designated areas. She and Aaron, plus the other two therapists from the Horse Farm—Mason Garlano and Mariah Naughton. As well, the stable bosses, Drew Dicksen and Sydney Roux, had joined the search. And so had Deputy Sheriff Vine and his partner, Jimmy Callahan. Only Sandra Cheever—known as Mama Cheever—the house manager for the offices, had remained behind. There were miles of pastureland and forest out there—enough to keep them riding and searching for many more hours. But dusk seemed to be coming on fast.

Twilight. Twilight in these hills.

A dangerous time up here—if you didn’t know your way.

But Marcus hadn’t fallen in the twilight. He’d had his accident, if accident it was, in the brightness of day....

He was cold now, stone cold. Olivia didn’t have many skills in forensics, but she was certain that he’d been here for some time. He hadn’t fallen in the dusk—a time when a tourist might become disoriented among the rolling hills, forested slopes and rocky dips.

This time of day frightened many people here. Kids told scary tales over campfires about the Civil War soldiers who continued to haunt the rugged terrain. Marcus had loved the legends; he’d once told her with a wink that the soldiers were his friends. In fact, he’d confided that Brigadier General Rufus Cunningham had been a big help when he’d decided to clean up—but he’d hoped his conversations with the long-dead man might cease once he was off the rum and heroin.

She was down in a ravine with a dead man who’d been a mentor to her, and it was getting dark. This wasn’t the time to mourn him. Only a few minutes had ticked by since she’d found him. There was no point in wishing him alive. Death was unmistakable.

She dug into her pocket for her cell phone, praying it would work. Satellite communication here wasn’t always the best.

But she called Aaron and he answered on the second ring. She got the words out, hard as they were, and told him she’d found Marcus, explaining that he appeared to have fallen.

“CPR. Do artificial respiration,” Aaron said urgently.

Olivia looked at Marcus. She had truly loved the man.

He was dead. He was cold; he was gone.

There was no way she was attempting artificial respiration.

“He’s dead, Aaron.”

“You can’t be sure!”

“Aaron, I’m sure. I am not trying artificial respiration. Get the officers to this location. Please.”

She hung up. And then she waited.

Full darkness was coming, and coming soon. She felt that she had to keep her hand on Marcus’s shoulder, that she had to be there with him. She hated that he’d been alone when he died.

She hated that she was alone now and that the last mauve of twilight was turning to gray and would soon become black.

She always rode with a flashlight, but it was at the top of the ravine in the bag she’d attached to her saddle.

She looked up as Shiloh whinnied. The horse pranced nervously.

“Don’t you leave me, boy!” she called to him. “It’s all right—”

She broke off in midsentence.

She hadn’t actually grown up here—not right here, about twenty miles west of Nashville off I-40—but she’d grown up in the city. She’d often come out to her uncle’s small ranch during her lifetime. She knew the legends of the area.

Many times, on foggy nights, she’d imagined that she’d seen them and seen him. In the mists that covered the hills, she’d seen the Rebel soldiers, cast from Nashville in 1862, trying to fight their way back, retreating in the darkness of night. She’d imagined the bloodstained battlefields; she’d heard the cries of wounded and dying soldiers.

She’d imagined seeing Brigadier General Rufus Cunningham, tall and straight and ever sorrowful at the death toll of the war as he watched his threadbare and beaten men ride by.

But she’d never seen him so damned clearly.

There, just above her, his white warhorse, Loki, stood feet from her own nervous Shiloh. The general stared down at her with sorrow and concern. He looked around as if he’d appointed himself her guardian.

For a moment, she almost felt there was something malignant nearby, some evil that crept toward her in the night.... Was that why the general was there? To protect her?

Then she felt as if a cold wind settled near her. She felt something...like a touch on her shoulder.

She turned.

There was Marcus Danby. Watching her.

She blinked; she looked down.

Marcus was dead on the ground before her.

Ghosts.

Her family was known for eccentricity, for seeing things, for knowing when it was going to rain, for a sense of foreboding when there was danger.

Her family!

Not her!

And she was looking up at a Civil War general and turning to see that the dead man before her was touching her shoulder from behind....

She’d never thought of herself as a coward.

But she was!

“Liv,” Marcus said. “Liv...I’m dead. Help me. I didn’t slide back into drugs—I didn’t! And it wasn’t an accident. I was killed, Liv. It was murder. Help me!”

A strangled-sounding scream escaped her lips; she heard that much.

Then she keeled over on top of Marcus Danby’s body in a dead faint.


1

The meeting Dustin Blake had been asked to attend was being held at the General Bixby Tavern, just off the I-95 South exit in northern Virginia.

Dustin knew it well. He’d often stopped there when he was a kid and his parents had taken him to D.C.—a place they’d both loved. Being historians, they would have lived at the Smithsonian if they could. At the time, he’d thought that the tavern’s owners had hired an actor to portray General Bixby. Bixby had been kind to him and full of information.

Dustin remembered being humiliated and hurt, as only a kid could be, when he’d discovered that there was no actor and his parents were concerned about his invention of imaginary friends. Then, of course, he’d disturbed them both by knowing things only the general—or a much older person, and an expert on the Civil War—would know.

That had led to a number of sessions with a psychiatrist.

Dustin had then made the sage decision to agree that General Bixby was an imaginary friend. That had brought about deep thought on the part of his parents—and it had also brought about his sister. His extremely academic parents had worried that an only child might be given to such flights of fancy because he was lonely. So they’d set forth to add to their family.

That was all right. He loved his sister.

He pulled off the interstate and took an exit that led nowhere except Old Tavern Road. Soon he pulled his black SUV into the lot at the tavern and parked. For a moment, he sat and stared at the building.

What was now the General Bixby Tavern had actually been built during the American Revolution and been called the Wayfarer’s Inn. During the Civil War, it had been renamed for the gallant Union general—the kind “imaginary friend” who had, while he was alive, braved heavy artillery to save both Union and Confederate soldiers. This was when a fire had broken out in the nearby forest. While many a leader might have sat atop his horse far from the carnage, Bixby had ridden right into the inferno. Wounded after dragging at least twenty injured men from the disaster, he’d been brought to the tavern where he’d died, pleading that the nation settle its differences and find peace.

He really was a fine old gentleman. Dustin knew that well.

He exited the car and headed up the old wooden steps to the broad porch that wrapped around the tavern. This many years later, the tavern was still basically in the wilderness—the closest town being Fredericksburg. Winter was approaching and there was a little coolness in the air, heightened by the thickness of the woods around them. Only its historic importance, and the plethora of “ghost hunters,” kept it from falling into ruin.

When Dustin stepped inside the dim tavern, he blinked at the change of light. He wondered instantly if the meeting had been planned so he’d have a few seconds of disorientation—a time during which he might be observed and not observe in return.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw General Bixby seated at the bar. The general nodded gravely at Dustin, indicating a group across the room.

Dustin nodded in return, then moved toward the others. He saw David Caswell stand; he’d been sitting at a corner booth. Caswell wasn’t alone. There were two other men with him. One was dark-haired with Native American ancestry apparent in a strong face. The other was light-skinned and light-haired. When they, too, stood to meet him, he saw that they were both tall and fit. And both were wearing casual suits. Not the usual feds—if that was what they were.

“Dustin!” David Caswell said. The pleasure of his greeting seemed sincere.

“Good to see you,” Dustin greeted David, shaking his hand. He glanced at the other two men and waited.

“I’d like you to meet Jackson Crow and Malachi Gordon,” David turned. “Jackson, Malachi, Special Agent Dustin Blake. When I first started with the police force in Savannah, Dustin and I were partners. He’s the best—and rare in his abilities.”

“Thank you for coming,” Jackson said.

The men took their seats again. They studied him, and he returned their stare.

So the dark-haired man was the famous—or infamous—Jackson Crow.

“How do you like being with the feds, Mr. Blake?” Crow asked him.

“How do I like it? Just fine,” Dustin said. And it was fine. He wasn’t sure what he felt about being there today, however. There’d been a time when he’d wanted nothing more than to be assigned to one of Crow’s “special” units. Now...he wasn’t so sure.

In all honesty—and he didn’t know if it was simply self-assurance or something less commendable—he’d expected to receive a good assignment when he’d graduated from the academy. Whatever that might be. And he’d gotten a good assignment. He worked with a group of four consultants sent on diverse cases when violent crime crossed state lines.

“You enjoy working with your team?” Crow asked. Was it just a polite question?

“Yeah, I do. My coworkers are good, savvy, personable and experienced. I work with one guy, Grant Shelby, who’s six foot seven, nearly three hundred pounds of lean, mean muscle, with almost computer-powered intelligence. He’s pretty good to have around in a hostile situation. And Cindy Greenstreet had the highest test scores in the past decade. I also work with Jerry Gunter—you might have heard the name. He used to be a mixed-martial-arts champ before entering the academy. He’s pretty good to have around in a pinch, as well. If you’ve called me here, I’m sure you’ve read up on me, so you know that when I joined the bureau, I didn’t start out as a kid but came in with a lot of experience, both in combat and law enforcement.”

Crow nodded and Dustin realized that he’d known all this. Dustin’s FBI unit was smart and tough—they’d been put together to get in and get the job done.

“Good assignment,” Crow said with a nod.

“Yeah.” As he’d told them, Dustin hadn’t come into the academy as a fresh-faced twenty-something grad. Before he’d gone to college, he’d participated as a witness in a case involving a duo of oddly matched serial killers. From there, he’d gone into the military, and after the marines he’d gone into police work. He hadn’t exactly entered the department immediately; there’d been a year when he’d been in total denial about himself and his “unusual” abilities—and about the heinous things men seemed willing to do to their fellows. He’d more or less walked into the wilderness. Actually, it hadn’t been that dramatic. He’d taken a job as a forest ranger in the Everglades—except that he’d been led to bodies in giant oilcans and he’d realized it was time to move his efforts in the best possible direction. There were certain things a man couldn’t escape—and his own nature was one of them.

So he’d decided to apply to the academy.

“You know all about me,” Dustin said. “Why are we meeting?”

David looked at Jackson Crow and shrugged.

“What do you know about the Krewes?” This time, it was Malachi Gordon who spoke. Dustin knew his name; he was a recent graduate of the academy. He’d come into the bureau after working a case in Savannah.

Dustin leaned back. “I’ve read about what happened in Savannah,” he told Malachi. “You know I worked with David so, of course, the beautiful city of Savannah is near and dear to my heart. In fact, I was somewhat surprised that my unit wasn’t assigned to that case, but apparently, things were already being taken care of. And, to the best of my knowledge, that case has been cleared, the paperwork wrapped up and the feds are long gone from Savannah. Having worked there, I thought I might be of some help, but...”

He paused and grinned sheepishly at David. “It seems like you all did just fine without me.”

“I’m sure you would’ve been an asset,” Malachi murmured.

Dustin looked curiously at the other man. “Thanks, but as I said—seems like you had it covered.”

“That was then—and we did have it covered. However, although the Krewes are growing, there are never enough of us, and we’re always looking for the right people,” Crow told him. “Would you be interested in seeing how you work out with one of our units?”

Dustin smiled. That was straightforward. “I initially asked about applying to one of your units. They told me there was no application process. You formed your own units.”

“That’s true,” Crow said. “And I wish I’d known about you earlier. David was talking to Malachi about you, and then Malachi talked to me. So, yes, I looked you up and pulled strings to get all the information I could on you. Thus far, each recruit has worked out. We’re...careful in the people we approach. We have to be.”

“Because you all have special talents, I take it?” Dustin asked. “And, of course, because all the other agents like to call the units ghost hunters and rib you all about it. But really, they’re all envious of your record.”

“Detective Caswell has told us that working with you was like—”

“Like working with me,” Malachi Gordon cut in. “David and I were together in New Orleans,” he explained.

“I see,” Dustin said.

“Are you a candidate, Mr. Blake?” Crow asked him.

Dustin lowered his head, hiding a smile. He looked back at Crow. “Well, let me put it this way—if you haven’t met him yet, I’d be glad to introduce you to General Bixby. He’s sitting at the bar right now, next to the man in the jeans and Alice Cooper T-shirt.”

That brought a grin to Crow’s face. Dustin hadn’t been sure the man was really capable of a smile.

“We haven’t met formally, no, but we’ve been aware of his presence.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was being tested or not.” Dustin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he looked at Jackson Crow, then Dustin and finally the third man, Malachi Gordon.

“Why now?” he asked.

It was Gordon who answered him. “You’re from Nashville,” he said.

Dustin thought quickly. He was privy to law-enforcement reports daily. He hadn’t heard anything about a kidnapping or murder in the city of Nashville.

“I am from Nashville,” he said, frowning. “But I’ve been gone for a long time.”

“You go back often enough, don’t you?”

He did, except that he hadn’t been there in a while. His academic parents were living in London. His little sister, Rayna, had grown up to be a country music singer. But she’d been on tour for the past year. He’d caught up with her—and his folks—for a few days in London earlier in the summer.

“Yes, but I haven’t been back in about a year,” he said.

“That’s not too long,” David said. “Have you ever heard of a man named Marcus Danby?” Malachi Gordon asked him.

“Marcus Danby.” Dustin repeated slowly. The name was familiar. “Of course. Yes,” he said. “He founded a therapy center. He brings in clients—patients—to work with horses. Or dogs, sometimes. He was the black sheep of a very elite family, wound up addicted to everything known to man. He did time, but he was the last living member of his family and inherited property. He also changed his ways. The Horse Farm is extremely well-respected.”

“Danby is dead,” Gordon said abruptly.

“I’m sorry to hear that. How did he die?”

“Fell into a ravine,” Gordon told him. “He was buried two days ago but the autopsy report was just released. He had drugs in his system.”

“That’s a pity. The man must’ve been clean for at least twenty years,” Dustin said. “What does this—”

“Some people close to him don’t believe what they’re hearing. We’d like you to investigate,” Jackson Crow broke in.

“You don’t believe it was a fall—or you don’t believe he was on drugs?”

“Neither,” Malachi replied.

“Are the police suspicious?” Dustin asked.

“No.” Crow shook his head.

“Then I don’t really understand—”

“Special Agent Blake, we often find ourselves slipping in when local law enforcement doesn’t see an immediate problem,” Crow said.

“I see.”

Malachi Gordon told him, “We’d like you to go in as a patient.”

“As a patient. You want me to go in as a patient and investigate an accident brought on by substance abuse when no one believes it might have been anything other than it appeared?”

“We have more than a suspicion that he was murdered,” Malachi said bluntly.

Dustin stared at him. “How? Why? I’m in the bureau. I know how it works. We’re usually called in when there’s a suspicion that a serial killer is at large or when a killer is crossing state lines.”

“Agent Blake,” Jackson Crow began. “We move in on cases when we’re afraid the truth may never be known because of unusual circumstances. We don’t go barging in as a unit. We send one or two people and they assess the situation for us.”

Dustin was surprised and, he had to admit, disappointed. This didn’t sound like a case that was worthy of the Krewe.

The units had handled many truly unique cases. The sad demise of a man, even a black sheep who’d changed his own life and created a lifesaving enterprise—just didn’t sound like the kind of puzzle that desperately needed to be solved.

He shook his head, baffled. “I need more than you’re giving me. Yes, I’m interested in working with a unit. As you’re well aware, a man can grow weary of finding excuses for knowing what he shouldn’t because he’s managed to have a conversation with someone who’s dead. And can I go in easily? Yes. The Horse Farm is about twenty miles outside the city, but I’d have to go in as myself because I do have friends in the area. But, God knows, that could be easy. Enough people in law enforcement crack—that’s a plausible reason. But I don’t understand how this even came to your attention.”

“My cousin called me, Blake,” Malachi Gordon said. “She works at the Horse Farm and she’s convinced that Marcus Danby was murdered.”

Great. Someone’s relative was upset.

Still...

It was an invitation to get a foot in the door with Jackson Crow and one of his Krewe units.

But if he was stepping in just because someone’s relative couldn’t accept the harsh fact that even the strongest person sometimes failed...

That wouldn’t bode so well.

“Why?” he asked Malachi. “Why is your cousin convinced that Marcus Danby met with foul play?”

“Because, Special Agent Blake, Marcus Danby told her that he was murdered.”

* * *

“I don’t get this horse-assisted therapy,” Joey Walters told Olivia as they walked around inside the pasture. “Unless,” he said, flashing her a belligerent glance, “it’s because our—” He hesitated a minute. She knew the word folks had been on his tongue. But he didn’t have folks anymore. “—our guardians think we’re as stupid as horses and that they’ll somehow fix us? The dumb leading the dumber?”

Olivia lowered her head, smiling, before she looked back at Joey. “Whatever makes you think horses are stupid?” she asked. She was glad to be working. They’d all taken a few days off for Marcus’s funeral, but now they were back.

And she was especially glad to be working because her mind kept racing in denial regarding the autopsy reports.

“They’re not smart—they’ll eat themselves to death if you let them,” Joey muttered.

“Horses have no hidden agenda,” she said. “They have their boundaries, just as we have ours. And for your information, Mr. Walters, horse therapy works well for those who tend to intellectualize everything. You can’t bully a horse. A horse can learn to trust you, but he or she requires you to be trustworthy, as well.”

As if to emphasize her words, Trickster, the twenty-year-old mare she was using with Joey that afternoon, nudged him in the back.

“Hey!” Joey said. But he turned and looked at Trickster. The mare snorted and shook her head, looking back at Joey.

It was a simple exchange—very simple. But Olivia saw something in Joey’s expression and the smile that touched his face. He might be telling her it was all a bunch of bull, but he already cared about Trickster and it was only their second time out.

“You weren’t paying attention to her,” Olivia said. “You brought her out here and then paid no attention to her. She wants to be noticed. She wants you to remember that you came to her.”

“Technically, you brought her out here.”

“Yes, but you brushed her and talked to her and started walking with her. She wants your attention.”

“You taught me that we learn about our boundaries through horses, as well. Most of the time, a horse will want to be in control. Isn’t that what you said? Not to let the horse push you around. She just shoved me!”

“Something else to learn, Joey,” Olivia told him. “Trickster does care about you. She nudged you to get some affection back. You can maintain control—and give her affection. Life is like that, Joey. You can love people—but you can maintain your own thoughts and opinions, as well.”

Joey’s smile deepened. He stroked the horse’s cream-colored neck, and Trickster clearly enjoyed his touch.

But then Joey stepped away. “I’ll get attached to her—and then have to leave her, too,” he said. “I’ll be alone again, like after my parents died.”

“Your parents would never have left you on purpose, Joey. And Trickster won’t leave. You’ll move on, but you can always come back and see her.”

“Everybody leaves,” he said sharply.

Joey had been sent to the Horse Farm because his parents were both killed in an automobile accident. At first, he’d been quiet, grieving, uncommunicative, his uncle had told them. Then he’d begun acting out. An athlete, he’d never been into drinking or drugs.

That had changed.

After his uncle had picked him up at a police station in Sarasota, their hometown, he’d begun to look for help. Joey was enrolled at Parsonage House about ten miles from the Horse Farm. The facility offered horse therapy to their “students.”

“Joey, I’m sorry about your parents. It was tragic and unjust. But like I said, you have to realize that they didn’t desert you, they loved you.”

“It’s not fair!”

“No. Life isn’t fair,” she said quietly. “We learn to cope with it the best we can.” She paused and walked over to stroke Trickster’s forelock. “Look at Trickster, for example. She was a racehorse once upon a time, Joey. She was destined for greatness. Then a jockey whipped her into frenzy and she broke a leg—and she was worthless to the man who owned her. Instead of being grateful for the races she’d won and the money she’d made for him, his owner planned on having her euthanized. But—”

Her voice broke, which surprised her. She believed she’d accepted that Marcus was dead. She hadn’t “seen” him since his death, and she and the rest of the employees at the Horse Farm were moving forward with the work Marcus had deemed so important.

“But?” Joey asked, puzzled.

“But Marcus heard about Trickster, and he bought her—offering her owner more money than the glue factory. He brought her out here, cared for her, and now she’s beautiful, as you can see.”

“They were going to make glue out of her?” Joey demanded, horrified.

“What matters is that she’s here now. And she knows we love her. It took a while, because she was just thrown out in a pasture and allowed to starve, living in constant pain, before Marcus rescued her.”

“But Marcus didn’t stay with her,” Joey pointed out.

“Marcus died, Joey. But he left her in the care of people who would continue to love her.”

Joey took a deep breath and ripped out a strand of grass to chew on. He looked across the landscape and said, “I shouldn’t have made life so miserable for my uncle, huh?”

“He was only miserable because he loves you. And I don’t think he’s miserable anymore because he knows you really do want to live a productive life. You just need to come to terms with what happened.”

He shrugged. At sixteen, he was a tall boy, a good-looking kid in great physical condition. He turned to her with one of his rakish smiles. “You like me, huh?”

“Of course I like you,” she told him.

His grin broadened. “I like you, too. But how I know you like me is that you’ve forgotten the time.”

Olivia glanced quickly at her watch. His hour was up; it had been for the past ten minutes. He’d been a tough case to crack and she’d felt deeply for him. “Don’t get ideas, kid,” she said. “I’m your therapist.”

“But you’re cute, too.”

“Great. Now let’s head back.”

“I can come and see Trickster when I’m older. Old enough to be a lot cooler in your eyes.”

“Joey! Cut it out. You’re just saying that to get a reaction out of me and you’re not going to. I’m your therapist. And you’re never going to be older than I am and we’re never going to date.”

“Wow. That life-not-being-fair thing is harsh!” he said. But he was still grinning. Then his grin faded. “They’re talking about Marcus, you know. There’s a rumor that he went back on drugs. That they found heroin in his system when they did the autopsy.”

Olivia felt her back stiffen. “Marcus wasn’t doing drugs,” she said.

“So, it’s a lie?”

She winced. It wasn’t a lie. But it was something that, so far, wasn’t common knowledge, even though the medical examiner had informed the staff at the Horse Farm. She’d assumed that unless an investigative reporter actually looked into Marcus’s death, no one would know it was true. And yet, rumors were obviously running rampant.

“I heard there were drugs in his system,” Joey said again.

“I knew Marcus, Joey. If there were drugs in his system, they weren’t there because he voluntarily took them.”

“You think he was tricked?” Joey asked.

“I don’t know what to think yet.”

“Wow. The plot thickens!” Joey said excitedly. “What if...wow. What if someone did drug him because they wanted him to die? Or what if he was pushed?”

“Joey, you’re talking about someone who meant a lot to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Liv, really.” Joey spoke with sincerity and she believed him. “It’s just that...well, we don’t have radios or TVs or the internet where I’m living right now. I’m embarrassed. I heard about this, and it was more interesting to think about that than...well, my own recovery, I guess,” he finished lamely.

“It’s okay. I’m not angry with you.”

“Scary, though, huh? I mean, this place is here for therapy. Supposedly, working with animals saved Marcus Danby’s life. If he wound up going back on drugs...well, it doesn’t say much for therapy.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Olivia agreed.

She looked toward the pastures at the Horse Farm. She hadn’t seen Marcus again—or rather, hadn’t seen his ghost. Had she imagined that she’d seen him? Did they—she and her cousin, Malachi—share a real gift? Or did they just imagine things, see them in their minds?

Uncertain, and unhappy with the official explanation, she’d called Malachi. But the results of the autopsy had just arrived that morning. She needed to call him again. He’d promised her he’d try to arrange an investigation, but explained that he had to tread carefully; he couldn’t come in officially unless invited. And because people knew he was her cousin, his arrival might give the appearance that the feds were intruding—or that she and the Horse Farm were receiving special treatment. But he’d said he’d figure something out.

Apparently, there was a government agent coming in as a client. A “burnout,” someone had called him. Was he Malachi’s answer to her request?

“Olivia?” Joey said.

“Yeah?” She tried to smile, realizing she’d been deep in thought and that he’d been watching her.

“I’m really, really sorry. I think this place is wonderful,” Joey told her earnestly.

“Thanks, Joey.”

“You all might have saved my life,” he said. “It works if you work it. You’re worth it, so work it!”

“Exactly,” she said.

He nodded. She really did like the kid. Especially when he realized, as he occasionally did, that he was a kid.

“Tell Trickster we’re going in,” Olivia instructed him.

Joey turned and stroked the horse’s forehead. “You are beautiful, Trickster,” he whispered, then gazed up at Olivia. “Do I get to ride?” he asked.

“Next session,” she said. “As you reminded me, we’re already over our hour. But next time, we’ll definitely ride.”

They returned to the Horse Farm. She watched as Joey brushed Trickster, brought her to her stall and fed her.

She didn’t have the heart to go and wave goodbye to the others who were leaving.

In fact, she didn’t even go back to the office. Aaron and the rest of the staff would be worrying, trying to figure out how to handle it if the news got out about Marcus’s autopsy. It was probably too late if a kid like Joey had already heard. Next step would be deciding how they were going to spin the information about his death.

When Joey left with his group, she quickly checked on the horses. She was the only one in the stables and assumed everyone else had either gone into the office for further anxious discussions—or hurried home. She headed straight to her car and left, driving the 4.5 miles to the little ranch house she’d visited so many times as a child. She’d purchased the place from her uncle once she’d accepted the job at the Horse Farm.

Her home was old, dating from the 1830s. She loved the house, always had. A huge fireplace took up most of the parlor, the ladies’ sitting room had been turned into a handsome kitchen with shiny new appliances and off the hallway was a computer/game/what-have-you room. There were two bedrooms upstairs, along with a sitting room, modern additions when they were built on in the late 1850s. They were all comfortable and charming. Her uncle told her that the house had always been in their family; a cousin, son, daughter, niece or nephew had taken it over every time. He’d given her a great price and held the mortgage himself. She’d paid it off last year on her twenty-sixth birthday.

As she stood at the door, she heard Sammy whining.

The dog could have stayed at the Horse Farm; God knew, there were enough rescue pets there! But Sammy had belonged to Marcus, and his leg was just beginning to heal. No one had objected when Olivia had said she was bringing him home.

She opened the door and there he was, tail wagging as he greeted her. Olivia didn’t have to bend far to greet him in return. Sammy was a big old dog who appeared to be a mix of many breeds. He had the coat of a golden retriever, the head of rottweiler and paws that might have belonged to a wolf. He had one blue eye and one half blue, half brown—it was a freckle on the eye, she’d been told.

He gazed up at her expectantly and sat back on his haunches. His hope and simple trust just about broke her heart. “He’s not coming back, Sammy. I’m sorry.”

Sammy barked in response. She wondered just what dogs did and didn’t understand.

Olivia threw her keys on the buffet at the entrance and walked to the kitchen to give Sammy a treat. As he gobbled up the “tasty niblet of beef and pork,” she promised him that she’d be back downstairs in a minute. He couldn’t go running out into the yard because he was still recovering from the gash on his hind leg.

She dashed upstairs, stripping as she went. She breezed through her bedroom to the bath and stepped into the shower, adjusting the water temperature until it was as hot as it could get. She stood there, feeling it rush over her, for a long time.

She wished she could turn off her mind.

Leaning against the tile, she wondered about Marcus. “You didn’t!” she whispered aloud.

It was easy to believe that an addict had fallen back into drugs. It happened. Some relapsed and returned to therapy or recovered through their own determination and resolve.

But not Marcus! Marcus couldn’t have relapsed.

She began to feel saturated by the heat and decided she was about to wrinkle for life. Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, drying herself before slipping into her terry robe. Hurrying downstairs, she went back to the kitchen, ready to make a cup of tea. Rounding the stairs, she noticed that Sammy was quiet, just sitting there, staring at the front door.

“At last!”

Stunned and terrified, her heart pounding, she whirled toward the door. Her hand flew to her throat as she desperately wondered what weapon she might grab to defend herself.

But no one had come to attack her.

The speaker was Marcus Danby.

Or the ghost of Marcus Danby.

“Good Lord, woman! What were you doing up there? I mean, just how clean can someone be?” Marcus demanded. He moved toward her as he spoke. “Oh, come on! You saw me before. You see me quite well right now, just like you’ve always been able to see General Cunningham and Loki. You think I didn’t know? Of course I do! You’re like a ghost magnet, my dear girl. Close your mouth—your lower jaw’s going to fall off. Please, Olivia,” he said in a gentler voice. “I need your help. The Horse Farm needs your help.”


2

Stepping off the plane and entering Nashville International Airport, Dustin heard the twangs and strains of a country music song. The sound made him smile. God, he loved Nashville. The city was unique in its mix of the up-and-coming and pride in its history. Music reigned supreme but without self-consciousness; it was ever-present like the air one breathed. People tended to be cordial. And, hell, what was not to like about an airport that had a coffee stand and the welcoming sound of good music the minute he arrived?

He paused for a minute, listening, feeling the buzz of activity around him. In the past decade he’d lived in a number of different places but there was nothing like Nashville and nothing like coming home.

He picked up the paperwork for his rental car, then walked out of the airport and over to the multistoried garage to pick up the SUV he’d rented. A few minutes later, he was following the signs for I-40. Soon he was headed off the highway to a Tennessee state road, passing ranches, acreages with herds of grazing cows and pastures where horses kicked up their heels and ran or nibbled at the blue-green grass.

A little while later, he was on the dirt path that led to Willis House—the “retreat” where he had reservations. Willis House catered to those attending therapy at the Horse Farm and other nearby facilities. It wasn’t a specialized facility, but advertisements for the inn stated that it was a “clean” environment in the “exquisite and serene” Tennessee hills. People didn’t just come here because it was a “clean-living facility,” though. They also chose it because the area was so beautiful, or because they were visiting family or friends who were in therapy nearby.

The gravel drive was huge; there was certainly no problem with parking out here. He slid between a big truck and a small one and noted that the other cars in the lot included a nice new Jag, a Volvo, a BMW and a sad-looking twenty-year-old van.

Willis House was...a house. There was a broad porch with rockers, and he noted an old-timer sitting in one of them, staring as he approached.

“Hello,” Dustin said. The man wore denim overalls and a plaid flannel shirt. His face showed deep grooves of a life gone past.

The man nodded to him. “You the cop?” he asked.

“Agent, now,” Dustin replied. He shifted his bag onto his shoulder and came forward to shake the old man’s hand. “Dustin Blake, sir. How do you do?”

The man took his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Jeremy Myers—but they call me Coot. Welcome. You don’t look like someone who needs much help.”

“We all need help,” Dustin said.

That brought a slight smile to Coot’s lips. “Burned out on the job? Or did you go wacko and beat up on some piece of scum that deserved it? Young man, that’s the thing today. No respect. Kids spit in teachers’ faces and the poor teachers can’t do a thing—less’n it gets called child abuse. So, you did your job too well?”

Dustin grinned. “Something like that.”

“No need to explain to me. You’ll have plenty of time to talk. Hell, all people ’round here want you to do is talk. Don’t let me keep you, though. That bag must be heavy.”

“Nice to meet you, Coot,” Dustin said.

“Just open the door and go on in. The main house is open until sunset, and after that you’ll need your key.”

“Thanks.” Dustin went in. It might have been any bed-and-breakfast in any rural section of the South. The entry led to a bright, cheerful parlor with the check-in desk being a bar, behind which was an equally bright and cheerful kitchen. He walked up and the young woman at the desk smiled.

“You must be Agent Blake,” she said.

“I am.”

“Hi, I’m Ellie Villiers. And you’re wondering how I knew who you are. Well, we don’t take in that many guests and we don’t take anyone without a reservation,” she explained. She was on a wheeled chair and she swung down to the end of the bar, where she plucked a set of keys off the wall. “We have you in the Andrew Jackson suite.” She was a gamine of a young woman, tiny with short dark hair and a perky manner. She gave him a warm smile as she rolled back to him and leaned close. “It’s not much of a suite, really. It’s just a big room—a ballroom in the old days. But it has the only private bath in the house and a door to the back porch. We’re careful who we give it to. Not that we have strict rules or regulations, but we do cater to those fighting their own demons, whether they come from a booze bottle, a pill bottle, stress, what have you.” She smiled at him. “You sound pretty cool. I heard that the bosses at the bureau think you need some downtime, that’s all.”

“Talking about me, huh?” he teased.

She shrugged. “This is rural Tennessee, Agent Blake. All we’ve got to do around here is talk. Oh, that’s not really true. There’s a gorgeous stream and cliffs and historic trails. You’ll love it out here. But wait—you’re from Nashville, right?”

“Born in the heart of the city,” he told her.

“Well, then you kind of know the area? I mean, you must have driven out of the city now and then. Of course, some people just get on the highway and keep going. They miss out on all this beauty, and so close to the city, too. Sad, although I guess that’s just the way life is.”

He laughed at her philosophy. “Sad, but true. And my first name is Dustin, okay?”

“Sure, thanks, Dustin. So the one key opens the main door in front. We try to remember to lock it at sunset. The other is to your room, which is just down the hall and to the left. There’s a continental breakfast every morning from six to nine. It’s right behind me in the dining room. If you need anything, give me a holler.”

“I will, and thank you, Ellie.” He started to turn away, but then paused. “Hey, are there any hack ranches around here?”

She seemed surprised by the question. “Why would you want to go to a hack ranch when you’re going to the Horse Farm? They don’t do trail rides, but you’ll be working with horses, so— None of my business! Sorry, the question just surprised me.”

“I used to come to this area when I was a kid. My folks are historians, so we did the Civil War trails around here, national parks, all that. In fact, we often did them on horseback, and I love to ride. I was just wondering...”

“There’s a place—Hooper Ridge Stables. Just go back on that road and down a ways. You’ll see a sign. There’s not much else out here besides private property, the old chapel that’s just outside the national park and...and a few therapy centers and lots and lots of cows. But it’s too late tonight because they don’t rent after five. When you want it, though, it’s there. Still, once you’re been to the Horse Farm...”

“I thought most of their animals were rescues,” Dustin said.

“Oh, they are rescues. And if they’re old or hurt, they don’t do much, just get fawned over by the staff and the patients. Clients. Whatever. But when they’re healthy, well, at the Horse Farm they become really healthy and they’re beautifully trained.” She swung the chair closer to the counter. “In fact, the owner—Marcus Danby—used to go by the local farms, and the owners all knew that if they had a broken-down horse or they brought in a wild one or a kicker, they could sell it to Marcus. Saved a lot of the poor bastards that way. I wonder what’ll happen now that he’s gone.”

“Who’d he leave it to? Did Marcus have any family?”

Her eyes became very wide and she shook her head. “No. The only reason Marcus inherited the property was the fact that he was the very last member of his family. I mean, when he was a kid—way before I was born—he was a total black sheep. Then he straightened out, and I don’t know if he made peace with his people, but...he was the last.”

“So who inherits his property?” Dustin asked again.

Ellie shrugged dramatically. “I guess Aaron. Aaron’s managed the place for him for a long time. He’s a good guy. But who knows if he’ll be as good as Marcus. Although...”

“Although?”

She couldn’t have gotten any closer to him, not with the counter between them. But she tried.

“There’s a rumor out that he died with drugs in his system,” she said, dropping her voice. “Marcus, I mean, not Aaron. Can you imagine that? Founding a therapy center and then biting the dust because after decades you suddenly decide to shoot up again?” she asked, sounding incredulous. Gossip, he realized, was delicious to Ellie. But then, she probably searched for any excitement out here. He lowered his head and smiled. They weren’t at the ends of the earth. Nashville was only twenty miles away. But he knew that people from the country usually stayed in the country.

“No matter how the man died, he apparently did a lot of good before his death,” he said.

“He did. He helped so many people....”

Dustin picked up his keys and finally turned to leave. “Thanks, Ellie.”

“Oh! If you’re hungry, the café down the road is open until nine or ten, depending on whether they have people in there. The food’s actually really great. The best corn bread.”

“Nothing like it.”

“And the cheese grits are to die for.”

“Another important factor,” he agreed. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Pleasure. Make yourself at home. Old Miss Patterson is in one of the bedrooms upstairs and Carolyn Martin’s up there, too, along with Coot—you met him outside?” Dustin nodded. “He likes to come for the winter. He lives in the hills but he’s a smart old bastard—knows he’s too old to plow snow and manage up there once the cold hits. Oh, I forgot to mention. The living area here is for everyone and there’s a room back of the dining area with games and stuff.”

With a nod of thanks, he headed over to his room. Setting his bag down, he took out his computer and Wi-Fi connector. There was a lot he wanted to look up, background he hadn’t gotten to yet. But neither had he stopped in the city to eat; it might not be a bad idea to check out the local diner and the clientele—especially since he was hungry.

First, though, he called Olivia Gordon, Malachi’s cousin, to explain who he really was and what he was doing there. She evidently knew that an agent was coming in; she couldn’t have missed that fact, since he was scheduled to start at the Horse Farm the following day.

She didn’t answer. He’d try her again in the morning—or maybe he’d just show up. Either way, he didn’t want to leave a message. Messages were recorded, and in his life, recordings could come back to bite you. But he also assumed that Malachi’s cousin was an intelligent young woman. She knew he was coming, so she’d figure it out.

Examining his room, he discovered that he probably did have the best. His bathroom was nice and large with way more closet space than he needed, and his key worked on the back door, as well. It led to the rear porch area; if he ever needed to, he could exit without being seen.

He left his room, carefully locking the door behind him. He did it out of instinct, not because he suspected anyone wanted to go through his belongings. But you never knew.

He waved to Ellie as he left, and also waved at Coot, still rocking on the front porch, as he walked out to his car.

The café was even closer than he’d realized from Ellie’s directions; it was just down the road. It was a true diner, converted from a pair of old connected freight cars. The tables were small but neat and clean, and his waitress, a heavyset woman named Delilah, was warm and friendly. The place was empty when he entered, but as she took his order—the daily special of pot roast, with a side of grits, okra and a serving of corn bread—the door opened and four young men walked in, followed by an older man. The boys were joking; the older man looked weary.

“The boys from Parsonage House,” Delilah murmured to him, nodding.

“Parsonage House?” he asked politely.

“It’s a center for wayward boys. At least that’s what we used to call them. Addicts—and other kids who’ve gotten into some minor trouble. None of them are hardened criminals. The Parsonage runs a program for them, and they offer all kinds of therapy. Including horse therapy.” She paused, wagging her head. “We have a famous facility for that, you know.” When he murmured that he’d heard of it, she continued. “The Parsonage has a good success rate—although some people around here aren’t so fond of having it in the neighborhood. But me, I like the boys. They come in every few nights, after their N.A. meeting at the old chapel,” Delilah told him. “Some of them—well, quite a few of them, actually—make it. Some of them, though, they come back, and they come back—and then we hear they’re up at the state prison or they’ve wrapped themselves around a tree off the highway. Drew, over there, he works for the Horse Farm. This is a sideline for him. Guess he likes the company of people now and then, seeing how most of the time he’s with critters.”

She walked away to fill his order. He picked up a copy of the free local paper, which was only six pages—mostly ads, a few columns of local news. The restaurant was small, and even if he wasn’t interested in what was going on around him, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid eavesdropping.

Two of the boys were cutting up, stealing another boy’s baseball cap and tossing it back and forth.

“Stop. Give it back. We’re in a restaurant,” the older man said. He didn’t yell, but he spoke sternly and they listened to him.

One of them complained teasingly, “Hey, Joey had a good day. He was out with Olivia Gordon for half the afternoon!”

“Yes, and you had your horse therapy session, too,” the older man said.

“Yeah, yeah—but I had Aaron.”

“Aaron’s great with the horses—and with you kids,” the older man said.

“Joey’s happy he didn’t get Aaron, right, Joey?” one of the boys joked.

Dustin could just see Joey. The kid was blushing.

“Joey’s got a crush on his therapist!” another one teased.

“I don’t have a crush on her—you guys have a crush on her!” Joey protested. “And it’s dumb. She thinks we’re all kids.”

“You are all kids,” the older man said.

“Hey, Drew,” one of the boys said. “Did you ever try to date her?”

The older man laughed. “I’ve known Olivia Gordon since she was a kid, and no, Sean, we never dated. She was a Nashville girl, and we met when she came out here to visit her uncle.”

“So? City girls didn’t date country bumpkins?” Joey asked.

“No, Olivia was never like that,” the man, Drew, said. He was smiling; it was evident that he liked Olivia Gordon, too. “She’s always been nice to everyone, and she’s very serious about her work. So don’t go making life miserable for her, huh? She’s...”

“She’s what?” Joey demanded.

“She’s just different,” Drew said. “Special. And a really fine therapist, so you all behave like gentlemen when you’re around her, y’hear?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the boys who’d teased Joey said. “This whole thing, though... It’s all a little hypocritical, isn’t it?”

“He’s talking about old Danby going back on the juice,” another boy said.

“Hey, that’s nothing but a rumor,” Drew said firmly. “Certainly at this point. I’m not even sure how it got started.”

“But what if the rumor’s real?” Joey asked.

“I don’t believe it,” Drew said. “I knew and worked with Marcus for years. But if he did go back to drugs, well... Hell, that’s not what you want for yourselves. Found dead in a ditch. Anyway, he shouldn’t be remembered for his relapse, if there was one. He should be remembered for everything he did right—for people and animals!”

Delilah stepped between Dustin’s booth and that of the group. The boys ordered, and when they spoke again, they were subdued. In another few minutes, Delilah brought out Dustin’s order. “Enjoy!” she said. She rolled her eyes toward the boys and Drew at the end of the dining car and hurried back around the counter.

The food was good, the corn bread as excellent as Ellie had told him it would be. But when he was done eating, Dustin stood and walked over to the group’s table. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Dustin Blake. My apologies, but I heard you speaking about the Horse Farm. My first day there is tomorrow. It sounds like you all think highly of the place.”

Drew started to rise in greeting but Dustin urged him to keep his seat.

“The Horse Farm is a great facility,” Drew responded. “I’m Andrew Dicksen, although I’m known as Drew. I’m one of the stable managers there, and these are a few young men who are working things out up there, too. Joey Walters, Matt Dougal, Sean Modine and Nick Stevens. I take them to their meetings a few nights a week and then we have a bite here—and maybe we’ll see a movie. If they’re polite, that is!”

The boys shook hands very politely, grinning all the while. They wanted to go to the movie, he was pretty sure. But they were quiet and respectful and they obviously paid heed to Andrew, even without bribery.

I hope these guys are the ones who make it, Dustin thought.

“It’s great,” Joey said. “The Horse Farm, I mean. It’s the best of all the things we do.”

“It’s really cool when you get to actually ride horses,” Sean added.

“It’s cool even when you don’t—especially if you get Liv.” Nick made a strangled sound; Dustin realized that Joey had kicked him under the table.

“I hope I get to hang around long enough to get back there,” Matt said. He was a lanky kid with long hair. He’d spoken last and almost to himself.

“Why wouldn’t you go back?” Dustin asked him.

Matt flushed uncomfortably.

“Yes, why?” Drew echoed. “Is there a problem?”

Matt looked as if he wished he’d kept his words to himself. “Um, my dad may drag me back home and send me somewhere in Minnesota,” he admitted unhappily. “He, um, said that if the people running the place couldn’t stay clean, what chance is there for kids like us?”

This was followed by a brief silence.

“I’m sorry,” Dustin said. “I heard about the tragic loss of the Horse Farm’s founder.”

Drew Dicksen nodded. “He was a good guy. A damned good man,” he said quietly. “Whatever anyone says.” He raised his head. “It’s a wonderful place. I hope things work out. I believe they will,” he said. “Anyway, Mr. Blake—”

“He’s an agent. Agent Blake. FBI!” Sean said excitedly. He grimaced as he looked at Dustin. “Sorry. I heard Aaron adding your name to the roster. So, we were all talking about you. I mean, it’s pretty exciting. We’re at a place where the feds send their guys!”

“Thanks,” Dustin murmured. “I guess.”

“Hey, did you shoot somebody?” Sean asked. “Is that why you’re here?”

Dustin shook his head. “Nothing like that,” he said.

“So, why’d they send you?” Nick persisted.

“They figure we all need a break now and then. We see too much,” Dustin explained

“Wow, cool. Who have you hunted down?” Matt asked.

“I’m here to not think about it for a while,” Dustin told him.

The door swung open, and a woman of about thirty-five stepped into the coffee shop. She was in jeans and a blue denim shirt—attractive without being beautiful. She smiled at him and then at those sitting at the table. “Hi.” She walked straight to Dustin and offered him a hearty handshake. “You must be Agent Blake.”

“I am. Nice to meet you...?”

“Mariah Naughton, and the pleasure is mine. Oh, I’m sorry, I must seem so rude. I work at the Horse Farm—I’m one of the therapists. We were notified that you were coming in tonight and that you’d be at the Horse Farm tomorrow morning. I believe Aaron has you going out with a small group first.”

“Is it with you?”

“No,” she answered, “sad to say it’s not me. You’ll be going out with Olivia Gordon. Aaron likes to start people out with Liv—and in small groups. She’s our most popular therapist. You’ll see why. Hey, Drew, boys, how are you all doing?”

Sean laughed softly. “You’re great, too, Mariah.”

Mariah grinned good-naturedly at that. “I’m just not twenty-something and gorgeous, huh?”

“You’re just fine,” Matt said fervently. “We all—”

“Don’t worry about it, Matt.” Mariah laughed. “It’s true that Liv has an exceptional gift with animals, so it’s good for people to learn with her first. Now me, I’m the historian! My family’s been here forever. We’ve lived here since the first frontiersman headed out to this part of Tennessee. In fact, I do tours every second Friday night and I lead these guys and a bunch of others on camping trips. We go out on horseback. I hope you’ll be joining us.”

“I’m sure I will. I’m a history buff, too.”

“Yeah?” Mariah asked. “Then you should spend some time with Drew, as well. He’s part of a reenactors’ group,” she said proudly. “They’ve even done reenactments for movies. They’re really good.”

Drew shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. “I enjoy it. I particularly like the research end of it.”

“Drew is great at making history fun,” Sean said.

“Mariah does haunted history,” Matt put in. “She’s got lots of ghost stories to tell.”

“It all sounds good,” Dustin said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“Glad you like the idea,” Drew remarked. “But just to prepare you for tomorrow... With any kind of therapy, you have to be open to it. Although, honestly, half the time people aren’t. And those people don’t do well with the horses. Can’t blame a horse for his reactions and he’s probably not out to get you, right?” he asked, smiling.

“Yeah, the horses are way better than sitting there in psych group waiting for someone to talk.” Sean brightened. “I like throwing things at the rock, though. That’s fun.”

“We make paper bombs and throw them at a big rock,” Mariah explained. “Helps let out steam. Throw away anger, resentment, pain...”

“Well,” Dustin said. “It’s been a long day. Nice to meet you all and thanks for the information.” Waving, he left the diner. He knew they’d be talking about him the second the door closed behind him.

Returning to the bed-and-breakfast, he realized he was more curious than ever about what was going on—and he realized, too, that he’d have to be very careful.

A hell of a lot of talking went on in this area.

* * *

Olivia sat on the couch in her parlor, an untouched cup of tea in her hands, while Marcus Danby was in the chair across from her. He looked as if he were alive. He wasn’t, of course, but he was there—almost in the flesh. He appeared to move, to walk, to talk, to be her friend as he’d been in life.

Except, of course, that he was upset. With her?

She shouldn’t be so frozen, she told herself. She’d seen ghosts before, met ghosts before! For God’s sake, her cousin, Malachi, lived with a great old fellow, a Revolutionary War ghost.

And she’d seen the general on the Tennessee hills many times. Some in this area called it a gift, some called it a curse, and some thought those who claimed to have it were flat-out crazy. Therefore, most people learned at an early age to pretend that what was...wasn’t. And when you knew that ghosts could make you appear crazy or even feel like you were crazy, you learned how to cope.

Malachi had kept her sane when they were kids. He’d convinced her that it had to be a secret they shared. And, of course, she sometimes had to be wary of the ghosts themselves. They stayed behind for a reason. It was best to know that reason before making friends.

She remembered one time when they were older, when he’d come out to her college graduation. He’d talked to her once they had some time alone, and she’d smiled because only Malachi had been able to make her laugh.

“I’ve got it,” she’d told him with mock-seriousness. “The way to handle ghosts is by not acknowledging the dead. You keep walking as if you’re in a hurry. You step over bodies along the way—ah, I’ve got it. Pretend you’re a stereotypical New Yorker. You march forward with an agenda at all times, walking briskly, and for the love of God, you never make eye contact.”

“Hey, some of my best friends are New Yorkers!” Malachi said, laughing.

Malachi had always had a sense of humor—and he’d always been tough. He’d gone into police work, and now he was with the FBI. She’d called him hysterically after the authorities had come to claim Marcus’s body, and he’d been so helpful. He’d made her understand that the federal government had to be invited in when there wasn’t a major crime that involved perpetrators crossing state lines, a kidnapping or circumstances in which local authorities had requested assistance.

Never once, however, had he suggested that she was making things up to save the Horse Farm, or that she was overwrought. He’d promised her that he would find a way to help her. “I’m not sure if I’m the right one to come out there at this point. Too many people are aware that I’m your cousin, and it’ll immediately appear as if you’re asking for outside help,” he’d told her. “Good way to piss off the local cops.”

She didn’t care about appearances. She wished Malachi had come.

The most bizarre thing was that Marcus Danby—or the ghost of Marcus Danby—was speaking much more easily than she seemed capable of doing at the moment.

Olivia managed to take a sip of her tea. She stilled her shattered nerves, took a deep breath and spoke to him. “Marcus, there was an autopsy.”

“I know. Ugh!” Marcus said, grimacing, a shiver racing visibly through his body. “Yes, no one’s fault—accidental death and all that.”

“And drugs were found in your system.”

“That’s just it, Liv. I swore, so many years ago, that I’d never touch drugs again as long as I lived. I wasn’t tempted. I didn’t hit what they call a trigger situation. I was a happy man.”

“So?”

“Okay, here was my day. I got up, had my coffee. Came by the Horse Farm. I love this time of year—not cold yet, not hot like summer. Sammy was playful. I was going to go for a ride and then I decided on a walk so I could take him along. Suddenly, not far from the ravine, Sammy starts wagging his tail, then barking like crazy. He raced off toward the grove of trees west of the ravine and he didn’t come back. So I called out to him and followed him, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground. I didn’t feel pain. I was just...on the ground.” He paused as if taking a deep breath.

He couldn’t have been taking a breath. He wasn’t alive. Olivia took another sip of her tea. She’d be heading into her kitchen for the brandy in a minute.

“You were on the ground,” she said, encouraging him to continue.

“I don’t know if I was hit in the head, if... I just don’t know. At first, there was nothing. And then...then I was on a high like you wouldn’t believe, and I knew I was in trouble. I got up and started walking and then...I felt a shove at my back and I fell and you know the rest of it!”

“So you believe that someone intentionally drugged you?”

“Yes. Not to mention the part about killing me.”

“I told the police you would never have intentionally relapsed, Marcus. I’ve sworn it, I’ve defended you, I...I called my cousin.”

“Malachi?”

“He’s an FBI agent, Marcus.”

“And he’s coming out here?”

“Ah, no. But he’s working on something. After I talked to Malachi and he promised to get someone here, I found out that we have a federal agent showing up as a client tomorrow. I’m sure he’s the help Malachi’s sending.”

“Why doesn’t Malachi come himself? Why doesn’t he tell you things directly?”

“He’s with the government. Those guys are all paranoid, I think,” Olivia muttered. “Anyway, it’s complicated, Marcus. People in this area know that we’re cousins. Some of them know Malachi. Like you. Sorry, I mean, you knew him—”

“It’s all right. Go on.”

“You can’t just step on the toes of the local police. So Malachi’s managed to get a big shot to believe that something’s wrong here, and they’re sending someone out. Under the guise of a client.”

Marcus remained somber but he nodded and looked at her with hope in his eyes. “Thanks, Liv. You have to solve this. The Horse Farm is a one-of-a-kind place. We work with addicts, with autistic and Down syndrome kids, with burned-out adults, the severely depressed.... But you know all that. And you know that it was always my way to make amends and to help others live quality lives and...you love the Horse Farm, too,” he finished.

“I’ll do everything I can, Marcus,” she promised. She closed her eyes for a minute.

When she opened them, Marcus was gone.

Great. In death, Marcus—always the most polite of men—had suddenly decided to be rude.


3

Dustin arrived at the Horse Farm. There was a massive sign on the narrow paved road that led to a long dirt drive, a sign announcing that he’d reached the Horse Farm.

It was an impressive place. Acres of rolling fields surrounded it, gorgeous hills crested in the background and rich forests stood beyond the pastures and meadows. When he got there, he saw that to the right of the drive were the massive stables, painted a cheerful bright red. To the left was the office and rec building; it, too, was large, but built ranch-style with only one story. Parking in the dusty drive out front, he headed for the office. Opening the door, he found old western furniture, walls covered with prints, paintings and newspaper clippings of horses, and overstuffed leather sofas. He saw a games room with people playing Ping-Pong and heard the whack, whack, whack of the ball going back and forth. A young woman breezed by him with a quick “Hello!” and hurried on to the back. “I’m challenging the winner!” she called.

A woman in her mid-or late thirties stepped aside to allow the young blonde to move past, to the games room. She shook her head but smiled tolerantly.

“Sorry, Mama Cheever!” the younger woman said.

“It’s fine, Liz. Go save your spot.” There was something both matronly and businesslike about her. She wore western-style boots, jeans and a colorful cotton shirt. She’d seen Dustin arrive and was coming toward him. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Maybe that was it. She had a long, sharp-featured face that rather resembled a giraffe’s.

“Agent Blake?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Sandra, Sandra Cheever. Or Mama Cheever, as you heard, which I still don’t get. I don’t cuddle patients, don’t tuck them in—I don’t even brew tea, for God’s sake. But I do handle the paperwork and the scheduling around here. We have everything we need except your signature for the files. These days—especially working with animals—we have to get waivers. But your office took care of everything else.”

“That’s great. What do I do? Where do I start? I’m ready to sign.”

Hands on her hips, she cast her head at an angle to study him.

“It’s good to hear your enthusiasm,” she told him. “I was afraid you’d be hostile to the situation—that it was a ‘come here or lose your job’ scenario.”

“I’m from Nashville, but you know that. You probably know everything about me,” Dustin said. “And I love horses. This sounded better than any other offer I’ve had, so yep. I’m enthusiastic.”

“Excellent. Then I’ll just bring you in to see Aaron. He’s our managing director.”

She lifted a hand to point at a door with a placard that read Aaron Bentley.

“Just tap and go on in,” Sandra said, grimacing as they heard a loud squeal from the back. “I’m going to go supervise. They’re good kids. When they’re here, anyway. But...they can get a bit crazy.”

Sandra hurried to the back. Dustin watched her go as he tapped on the door.

“Come in, it’s open!”

Dustin stepped into the office. It was old-fashioned, to say the least. While the desk bore a laptop computer and a printer, an old blotter still sat on it, too, along with a memo tray piled high with papers. The room had two big leather-covered chairs in front of the desk and a worn couch to the rear. Windows looked out over one of the pastures.

The man standing behind the desk was about six feet tall, bearded and balding. His beard was neatly clipped; he seemed far better organized in his personal appearance than he did in his office management skills. Thin gold-rimmed glasses sat on his nose. He smiled seeing Dustin and walked around the desk, offering his hand.

“You must be Agent Blake. I’m sorry. One of us should have been out there to greet you.”

“Oh, a nice woman named Sandra did greet me. And yes, I am. But please call me Dustin.”

“We go by first names here, so that’s great. I’m Aaron. Aaron Bentley. We’re glad to have you here, Dustin. We’ve broken ground with many different groups, you know. About ten years ago, we started working with veterans—the physically wounded, and those who have wounded minds. We help children with disabilities, addicts of all ages, you name it—horse therapy can work wonders. But you’re our first law enforcement official. Let’s sit down for a moment.”

Aaron returned to the swivel chair behind his desk, while Dustin sank into one of the old leather armchairs. It was comfortable. As messy as the office might look, that apparent chaos actually contributed to a sense of ease.

“I spoke with your supervisor, a Mr. Jackson Crow,” Aaron said, folding his hands in front of him. He didn’t glance at papers or fiddle with anything on his desk. He gave his absolute attention to Dustin. “He said you were having nightmares and that he believes you’re—”

“Burned out?” Dustin suggested.

“No. Experiencing one of those spells where you’re having trouble weighing the good you’re able to provide against the horrors you have to see. I admit, when I first got the call, I suspected you’d been involved in some dreadful situation where innocents had been killed. But he tells me you’re one of his best agents and that he wants you to take some time off. He also said you don’t do well with traditional psychiatrists or therapy and that he hopes this will work for you.”

“Ah, did he tell you that?” Dustin murmured. He’d had a general idea of what Jackson Crow had planned on saying; he didn’t know how close to home it might be.

“I smoked once, Aaron. Years ago. Cigarettes, I mean. I went to a hypnotist to stop. Thinking about water and staring at a bull’s-eye on the wall did nothing for me. I merely wanted to kill the hypnotist.”

“Well, this isn’t like that, but...we do have group and individual therapy. We also do camping trips to the little brook a couple miles from here. You don’t have to think about the water—you can walk right into it if you choose. Frankly, I’m not sure we’ll be what you’re looking for, but we’re anxious to see if we can help men and women in your situation. If nothing else, a little R & R is always good for someone who is constantly under life-or-death tension.”

“I’m glad to be here. You know I live in northern Virginia—D.C. area, really—and I love it. But Nashville and these hills—well, this is home.”

“Good, good!” Aaron seemed genuinely pleased. “Now I should tell you that we’re in the middle of a real shake-up. We’ve just lost our founder—Marcus Danby. It’s a tough time for all of us. So...your people knew he was dead when they called. The fact that you wanted to go ahead, anyway, is a testament to Marcus. At any rate,” he said briskly, “I put you in with a small group this morning. I understand you met one of the kids, Joey, last night. Young man, acting out. Terrible loss in his family. Anyway, I won’t tell you any more. Come on out. I believe that Liv’s at the stables and the troops are gathering.”

As they went out the front door, another man was coming in. Aaron paused to introduce the two of them. “Dustin, meet Mason Garlano. You met Drew and Mariah Naughton last night, so once you’ve spent your first session with Liv, you’ll know all of us except for Sydney Roux. He takes care of the horses and the stables with Drew.”

Mason Garlano had sleek, curly dark hair and dark eyes. He was in his twenties, with a slightly exotic flair and unmistakable charm. He quickly shook Dustin’s hand. “We’re glad you’re here—and hope you enjoy your visits.”

Dustin thanked him and followed Aaron to the stables.

At first sight, Olivia Gordon was little short of spectacular. He understood immediately why the adolescents he’d met the night before were so crazy about her.

She resembled her cousin, Malachi, except that everything that made Malachi Gordon appear rough and rugged came out as pure beauty in Olivia. They had the same sable hair, a color that was rich and shiny. Hers was long, waving down her back.

Jeans and a blue denim shirt had never been worn so well.

When she turned to look at him, he saw that her eyes were a crystalline blue. They seemed to have a million different facets, all of them subtle shades of blue and green.

Her eyes widened when she met him. “So, uh, welcome. You’re the FBI man?”

He grinned. “Yep.” Did that mean she understood why he was there? He assumed so. “A pleasure to meet you. I believe I’m with your group now?” he asked.

She nodded, glancing at Aaron. “I hear you work in the D.C. area—or you’re based there, anyway. Do you know my cousin? Malachi Gordon?”

“Yes, I do. You two have quite a resemblance.”

“We’re double-cousins. Our mothers were sisters and our fathers were brothers,” she told him.

“Hmm. Well, that must explain it.”

They gazed at each other, but were interrupted by a small body that raced past him—and threw his arms around Liv.

“Oh!” she gasped, and then laughed, hugging the intruder. “Brent, turn around now. I want you to meet a new member of our group. This is Dustin. Dustin, please meet Brent.”

Brent had Down syndrome. He studied Dustin unabashedly and smiled, thrusting out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dustin.” He enunciated his words carefully.

“Brent, pleased to meet you, too, buddy,” Dustin said.

“I’m here, I’m here!” A woman came trotting out to the paddock.

“Hey, Patty,” Olivia said.

“Am I late?” the woman asked. She looked at Olivia but then stared at Dustin. “Hi.”

“You’re not late,” Olivia said. She introduced Dustin. The woman kept staring at him.

“Joey should be here any minute,” Olivia said. “I’ll be right back.”

She made her way to the stables. “Hi, Patty,” Brent said.

Patty smiled at him. “Hi, there, Brent.” She looked at Dustin again. “So, you’re really with the FBI ?”

Dustin nodded.

“What have they got you in here for?” she asked him.

“I’m not even sure how to explain it,” Dustin told her. She was still smiling as she studied him. He slanted his head. “What is it?”

“Sorry!” she said. “I’m in court-ordered therapy because of some...problems I had. I’m glad. I need my life back. I have a little girl and I want custody of her. At least shared custody. Her dad’s half the reason I’m here—nope! I’m the reason I’m here. But now I get to say I was in with an FBI agent, and that makes it...I don’t know. It makes it better somehow. I mean, people who do important things, people like you, can have problems just like me.”

“Well, uh, good,” Dustin said, a little helplessly.

“Especially after what happened to Marcus,” she added.

He didn’t get a chance to say any more. Joey was there. Dustin was glad to see that he seemed to have a special place in his heart for Brent and made a point of greeting him.

Olivia Gordon reappeared, leading a massive bay gelding with a glossy coat. He had to be about seventeen hands high.

“This is Cheyenne. He was bought as a three-year-old for a young rider. He was too much for her and the father sold him to a hack ranch. He was never handled properly and started throwing riders. One of the stable hands thought that whipping him would work and Cheyenne threw him into a field. He was then put in a paddock and basically ignored until—” she paused for just a second “—until Marcus Danby came upon him. We’ve had him about three months now and we’re working with him today because we’re working on boundaries. So, first, one by one, get to know him.”

Dustin had to admit he wasn’t sure how getting to know a horse was going to be therapeutic for an adolescent boy, a Down syndrome child and a woman in court-ordered rehab. Or how a difficult horse could help anyone with “boundaries.” Or why the three of them seemed like a good combo.

But as their time together progressed, he realized that what Olivia was telling them was true. They each worked with the animal, leading him, stopping with him, leading him again. She taught them to respect the horse—but to maintain control. They were given a distance to cover; they weren’t to stop because Cheyenne tried to bully them into walking over to the grass. Neither were they to jerk on his reins or in any way harm the horse.

It was interesting—even for Dustin—because the horse was a powerhouse of muscle. They were encouraged to speak to one another. And they were all encouraged to give the horse encouragement, to applaud his compliance. When Olivia ended the session, she released the gelding and he immediately bolted for the field. Cheyenne ran about for a few minutes. And then he ran back to them. He nudged Brent, and Brent laughed delightedly and returned the animal’s affection.

“How did you get him to do that?” Patty asked Olivia.

“I didn’t. He chose to come back,” Olivia said. “Okay, we’ll take Cheyenne to the stables now. Grooming time.”

It was an intriguing exercise. Olivia supplied brushes and they decided among themselves who’d do the mane and tail and how they’d share this one-person task.

Then their two-hour session was over. Olivia told Brent to say hello to his mom for her, said goodbye to Patty and informed Joey that they’d be ready for his ride in half an hour. She turned to Dustin. He was struck again by the beauty of this slender woman who seemed to have so much confidence, such easy control.

She was obviously waiting for the others to walk away so she could speak to him privately. But they were talking and laughing among themselves.

He moved closer to her. “I’m here because of Malachi,” he said quietly.

She glanced quickly around. “Someone could have called me and told me that yes, it was being handled.”

Her taut response gave him a start. He lowered his voice. “You could answer your phone,” he told her. “Although one would’ve thought that if you’d called an agent for help and another agent showed up, you’d put two and two together. Then again, if you answered your phone, you might have spoken with both of us.”

She looked away. “Yesterday wasn’t a good day for us. We got the autopsy report in the morning.”

“Yes, I know that, Ms. Gordon. Because the day before, I was about to head out on a serious case—kidnapping and murder in the Northwest. Instead, I’m here—where an addict might or might not have gone back to his old ways.”

She flashed a glance at him, her eyes shimmering with hostility. “I’m sorry. I would think the murder of any human being was important and worth investigating. If we’re not gruesome enough for you, I do apologize. But you are here to investigate. I—”

She paused, moving a step closer. She might work with horses in a stable, but she wore some kind of subtle perfume that made her smell like the whisper of flowers in the breeze.

“I have two individual sessions this afternoon. You’re not one of them. Everyone starts off with a session like you just went through, to see if they feel this will be of benefit to them. That will allow you to fit in here, which is the point. So, now you can investigate. What are you going to do?”

He frowned at her, somewhat irritated that she’d gotten under his skin. All his life he’d walked a straight line. He felt he had sympathy for those left behind after a death, although he wasn’t and never had been a counselor in any way. But he didn’t let emotion invade his work. In his position, he couldn’t. He’d wind up...

In therapy, he thought dryly.

“Well?” she asked. “What will you do this afternoon?”

He angled his head thoughtfully. “I’m going to play Ping-Pong. What time do you get off, Ms. Gordon?”

* * *

When Olivia finished with her last session, she discovered that Dustin Blake was still at the facility. He was playing doubles; he and Joey were partnered against Sean and Matt.

Officially, the Horse Farm was there for equine therapy. But any “guest”—as they officially called their patients or clients—was welcome on the grounds during open hours, which usually ended at six. They’d long ago noticed that their guests were comfortable at the Horse Farm and, because of that, many stayed long hours reading in the back room or playing games.

Olivia wondered if perhaps he’d been waiting for her. But she paused by the reception area, pouring herself a cup of coffee and watching him. She’d managed to call Malachi on her cell during her last ride, and he’d managed to call her back. Yes, if she’d answered her phone, she would have learned that Blake was the agent who’d been sent.

He was a curious choice, she thought. He was hardly nondescript. The man stood at about six foot four. He had the kind of lean, hard muscle that might be seen on a basketball player. His every movement hinted at agility. His face was chiseled, his jaw square, and he had flashing dark eyes that seemed to view the world around him with a certain amount of skepticism. No one could miss him. Hardly the type to slip in and out of anywhere unnoticed.

But then, he’d come here as what he was—or mostly as what he was. Aaron was practically giddy that the bureau had chosen their facility as a place for the man to unwind, chill out or vanquish his demons. Nowhere in the paperwork had it been suggested that he was addicted to alcohol or other substances, but you didn’t have to be an addict or suffering from a physical or congenital disadvantage to benefit from the Horse Farm. Marcus Danby had believed that the best therapy brought various kinds of people together. For instance, a stressed-out business exec could learn that patience and tolerance for an autistic or otherwise handicapped child was something that should come naturally. Equally, a young man like Brent could show true acceptance and affection to a drug addict or alcoholic who discovered that friends—real friends, or the ones who’d enabled their addictions—were afraid to be there for them anymore.

But while they’d had handsome high school and college football heroes, a number of pro athletes, musicians and some of the people who pulled major strings on Wall Street, they’d never had anyone quite like Dustin Blake.

He was the topic du jour.

Drew Dicksen stepped in from outside. He walked directly over to her and the table with the ever-present coffee service.

“Hey, how are you doing, kid?” he asked her.

He seemed to look at her with concern all the time now.

“I’m doing all right. How about you?”

“Fine. Fine, thanks. So, you met the new guy.”

“Yeah.”

“How did it go?”

“Okay.”

Drew leaned against the wall, pensively watching the back room. “I wonder why he’s really here.”

“Pardon?” she said, startled. Did people know?

He smiled and lowered his voice. “I mean, what did he do? The kids talk about it constantly. They think maybe he cornered a serial killer—and shot him down rather than arresting him. Or he freaked in the middle of a tense situation. They keep making up scenarios—and they’re making me wonder, too.” He laughed. “In fact, it’s hard not to join in with their fantasies.”

“I doubt that he freaked out, or that he’s violent. If he was, I don’t think he’d be here,” Olivia said pragmatically.

“He’s sure got a rapport with kids,” Drew said.

“The kids adore you, too. More than that, they respect you.”

“Most of the ones we get are good kids,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m not jealous. My real job is basically pooper-scooper. And he’s an FBI guy—where’s the comparison?”

“Andrew! You and Sydney save animals, animals found in the worst possible conditions sometimes. You care for them, and you keep everything in this place running.”

“Don’t say that in front of Aaron!” he said with a laugh. “Me, I don’t want to be an FBI man. I’m not at all fond of the concept of people shooting at me. Can’t help but be curious, though. So how did he do today?”

“Fine. He worked well with others and seems to know horses.”

“He is from Tennessee.”

“Drew, not everyone from Tennessee rides horses,” she reminded him.

“No kidding?”

Olivia rolled her eyes.

They heard a loud shrill of delight. “We won!” Joey cried happily.

“Rematch tomorrow!” Sean shouted back at him.

Sandra Cheever suddenly appeared, marching over to the boys. “Tomorrow being the key word. Out, young ’uns. We have to lock up.”

“Aw...”

The kids began filing out for the night. They all said their goodbyes to Olivia and Drew. Joey paused by the door. There was a sign-up sheet for the history/ghost tour and camping trip Mariah was planning to lead on Friday night.

Joey paused, turning around. Olivia thought he was talking to her at first when he asked, “Are you going?”

Then she realized that Dustin Blake was standing right behind her.

“What is it exactly?”

“Mariah Naughton. Remember, she was talking about it at the diner last night? We take the horses and ride out to sites that aren’t part of the National Battlefield Parks. I mean, they can’t own everything, and there was Civil War action all around here. She talks about Tennessee battles, the ghosts that remain, and then we go set up camp by the stream. It’s really cool.”

“Seriously, nothing here is really cool, man,” Sean said, sticking his head back in and placing his hands on Joey’s shoulders. “But it’s the coolest thing we get while we’re in purgatory.”

“You’re right. I do remember. Sounds great,” Dustin said.

Olivia glanced at him, trying not to frown. Ping-Pong and camping? That was how an agent worked?

Joey scribbled on the sheet and turned back to Dustin. “I put your name down, okay?”

“Thanks.”

Aaron had come out of his office. Sandra—herding the boys out the door—was now behind Dustin.

“Guess I need to get out of here, too,” Dustin said. “Thank you. I’ve heard about this place for years. It’s fantastic. Good day for me.”

“Glad to have you, Agent—Dustin,” Aaron said.

As he walked out, Aaron turned to them. “Drew, can you get Sydney? And, Sandra, can you find Mariah and Mason? We need a little meeting.”

Five minutes later, they were all seated on the couches and chairs in the entry room. Once everyone had settled in, Aaron said, “We have to decide how to handle this situation. First, just to let you know, Sandra and I have rescheduled all our sessions for tomorrow—the lawyer’s coming in the morning.” He cleared his throat. “I guess you’re all aware that Marcus was the end of his line. I believe, since he and I discussed it many times, that the facility was left to me, but no one can be certain of anything until his attorney reads his final will and testament. I know, as well, that he left something from his life for every one of you. There are also clauses that protect the property and the livestock in the event of my death. So...that’s one thing. The other is...we have to decide on spin.”

“Spin?” Mariah asked.

Aaron exhaled. “Well, the information about the autopsy is out. Naturally, in today’s age of instant information and social media, it was inevitable, and some people are going to make a big deal of it. We all know the autopsy revealed he was on drugs. The blood tests made that clear. I saw Marcus that morning—he was fine. In fact, he was in a great mood. What happened to make him relapse after all those years...I don’t know. The thing is, it puts us in a bad light. What good does any of this therapy do if the man who founded the Horse Farm died while on drugs?”

“He didn’t take drugs willingly,” Olivia said firmly.

They were all silent, looking at her. She knew that pitying stare. They all believed she just couldn’t accept it.

To her surprise, Sydney Roux, Drew’s partner in looking after the stables, spoke up, too. He stood to do so; Sydney was an old Tennessean. His grandparents and their grandparents had grown up in the nearby hills. He was a gentleman to the nth degree. He fingered the baseball cap he’d removed when he entered the office as he said, “I can’t believe it, either. I remember I was in my room above the stables one evening when he came by. I’d been drinking a beer and I tried to hide it. He told me, ‘Sydney, I’m an addict. You’re not. Don’t go thinking you can’t have that brew because I stopped by. I’m long past my trigger days.’ And I believe that—just like Olivia believes it. Something happened. Someone tricked him.”

“If only,” Sandra murmured.

“How could we ever find out? How could we prove such a thing?” Mariah asked. “We had cops out here. They searched with us that day.”

“They didn’t find anything!” Olivia said, sitting up straight.

Aaron looked at her. “Right.”

“Don’t you see? They didn’t find anything. They didn’t find heroin, crack or anything else on him—and they didn’t find a needle in his possession. Where were the drugs or the paraphernalia he would have needed?”

Sandra came and sat on the edge of the sofa by her. “Oh, Liv, the acreage here seems to go on forever and we’re surrounded by forests. He could’ve left stuff anywhere on the property and we might never find it. A hundred years from now, when they’re digging the place up to build condos, they might come across a broken needle or something and wonder what the hell?”

“Someone else could have put it in him,” Olivia said stubbornly.

Sandra looked helplessly at Aaron.

“I don’t know what happened and I probably never will. And it doesn’t matter. Marcus was one of the greatest men I’ve ever known,” Aaron said. “The point is how do we handle this?”

“With honesty,” Mariah said. “What other way is there?”

“We downplay it,” Mason insisted. “We tell the truth. We’re honest. But we say that it never happened before—and that is the truth. We say that Marcus had thirty years of clean living, and many people—and animals—benefited because of him. And that we’re continuing on in that fine tradition of faith and belief.”

“Mason,” Mariah said. “That was wonderful! If you get tired of being a therapist, you can go into public relations.”

Olivia nodded. “It really was a good statement.”

“And it’s the truth,” Aaron agreed. “All right, then. We just lie low. When asked, we say that we don’t know what was going on in his mind at the end but that we loved him and he did a world of good. We’ll say that we’ll never forget him or what he gave to others. However, don’t bring up the subject unless you’re asked. So, everyone, have a good night.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Olivia said, rising. “I think what we’ve talked about here is important. We also need to find out what happened.” She looked around at all of them. “Do you honestly think Marcus just had a stash out in the woods? That he had it there for a long time—just in case the day came when he suddenly broke after decades of clean living? We need to pursue the truth.”

“How?” Mariah asked. “We’d need an army to comb the property and the woods. There are just seven of us. The police have other things to do, and we’re not asking clients—some of them addicts—to look for drug paraphernalia!”

“There’s his house,” Olivia said, turning to Aaron. “If his house was searched, we’d at least know he wasn’t using there—or considering it.”

Aaron left out a soft sigh. “I believe that, as of tomorrow, the house will be mine. You can search to your heart’s content, Liv. And if any of us thinks of a forest hidey-hole, we can search that, too. Liv, I don’t know what else to do!”

“I’ve been in his house,” Sydney said. He worked the cap furiously in his hands. “I went to get his suit for the funeral home. I didn’t search the place, but it’s not big, and I sure as hell didn’t see anything that would indicate Marcus had lost it. Of course, that was before they released the autopsy report.”

“Maybe tomorrow night you and I can go back,” Olivia suggested.

“Yeah,” Sandra said. “Oh, Olivia, honey, I know how much you loved Marcus. But what can we possibly prove?”

“That he didn’t fall back on drugs, Sandra! It could mean everything for the Horse Farm.”

“You search his house tomorrow night if you want,” Aaron said. “Olivia, you can do anything that’ll make you feel better, and when you need our help, just say so.”

She had the feeling that what he really meant was emotional help; still, it seemed that Aaron was on her side, and that mattered.

“Thanks,” she told him.

“So the attorney is coming here at ten,” Aaron said. “See you in the morning.”

They all moved. Some of them would get into conversations about Marcus—or about Dustin, Olivia knew.

She didn’t want to get into a conversation.

She drove home. Sammy greeted her and she stroked the dog’s back and spoke to him for a minute before she looked around downstairs.

“Marcus?” she called.

There was no answer. She went up to her room and changed into comfortable sweats, then came back downstairs.

Marcus was there, in the kitchen. “Wish I could’ve put the teakettle on for you,” he told her.

“That would have been nice.” She put the kettle on and leaned against the stove. “Maybe in time,” she said.

“In time!” he protested, then smiled at her. “That’s almost Biblical. A time to reap, a time to sow—and a time to walk into the light. I want to walk into that light, Liv. I’ve seen it. It’s beautiful. I should go there.”

“Oh, Marcus.” She wanted to give him a hug—but she couldn’t hug a ghost. “Marcus, if the light is there...and it’s what you want, then you should go into it. We’ll get along here, I promise. I’ll do everything I can. Malachi sent an agent out to investigate.” She paused. Yeah, and he likes to play Ping-Pong and go camping!

“Marcus, have faith. In me, I mean. You can go to the light.”

“No, actually, I can’t. Not yet. Not until I’m proven innocent. People do fall back into drugs. But the thing is—I didn’t. So I just can’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know why not!” he said, aggrieved. “You figure out the meaning of life and death—I sure as hell don’t know it!”

Before she could respond, Sammy suddenly stood up and barked. Right after that, there was a knock on her door.

Olivia stared at Marcus, wondering why she should feel so alarmed. “Why don’t you answer that?” Marcus asked.

She nodded. “Fine. You stay put.”

She squinted through the peephole. The man at her door was Dustin Blake.

Surprised, she opened the door.

“We’re really not supposed to fraternize,” she said. “Not when I’m your therapist.”

“You’re not really my therapist,” he said. “And I’m not really in therapy. May I come in, please? I need to understand a lot more about what’s going on around here. One of our computer whizzes back in D.C. got me a copy of the autopsy report. There was heroin in Marcus Danby’s system.”

“Yes, I understand that. We may be in the backwoods of Tennessee, but we do have a county morgue and intelligent, well-educated medical examiners. I didn’t doubt the report. But the drug was administered to Marcus somehow. That’s the point.”

He stood just outside her door, stoic and patient. She recognized that he was kicking into true professional mode. “Ms. Gordon, I would be most unlikely to fault the capabilities of agencies in Tennessee, since I’m from the state myself and continue to love and admire my homeland. What I’m trying to tell you is that the facts of the situation are going to make it very hard. I’m trying to have a real discussion with you and find out everything you can possibly tell me.”

She opened the door wide. “Please come in. You actually don’t need to hear it from me. Would you like some tea, Agent Blake?”

She heard him close the door as he stepped in. Sammy gave a loud woof, then wagged his tail energetically and ran to the newcomer. Dustin Blake leaned down to scratch the dog’s head. “Hey, fellow, you’re a handsome lad. Poor thing, how’s the leg doing?”

“He’s healing nicely, thank you,” Olivia said. She led him into the kitchen; if Malachi had sent this man, if he was part of a Krewe, he must have some sense that the dead could, and sometimes did, speak.

“You should hear it from Marcus himself,” she said, coming around the counter.

But Marcus was gone.

Once more, he’d cut out on her without so much as a wave—now, when she needed him most.


4

Olivia Gordon had appeared irritated—and smug. As if she’d been about to prove to an upstart that her every word was true.

But she was obviously perplexed as they walked into the kitchen. Surprised by something, and off balance.

“What’s wrong?” Dustin asked.

She had the ability to collect herself quickly. “Nothing. Would you like tea?”

“Uh, sure.”

She went through the motions, moving a little too precisely, setting the mugs down a little too hard.

“Black or green?” she asked. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Black or green, and just plain, thank you,” he said. She knew, of course, that he was watching her. “I was going to hear what happened from Marcus?” he asked quietly.

She looked at him as if she wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t her cousin, but he’d come because of her cousin.

“Hey,” he said. “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve wanted to join up with one of Jackson Crow’s units since I heard about them. It’s a hard world to walk around in when you’re the only one who sees and hears things that others don’t. When you talk to the dead.”

Still looking up at him, she flushed.

“He was here,” she said. “He was in the kitchen, telling me how much he wanted to go to the light, but that he couldn’t. And he was sorry, he said, that he doesn’t have all the answers, but he just can’t go into the light. Not until he and the Horse Farm are vindicated.”

She reached for a tea bag. She was still agitated and the tea bag went flying across the kitchen floor.

He set his hand on hers. “Relax. It’s okay.”

“He was right here,” she repeated.

“Yeah. I believe you.”

“So, you’ve come to help. Why did he just vanish? Why did he vanish on me before?”

“He doesn’t trust me. And maybe, despite the fact that he seems to have learned how to haunt you, he may not have the force or the energy to stay around for too long—or at least not in a form in which you can see him. Like he said, he doesn’t have all the answers. We certainly don’t have them, either. There isn’t really any book of the dead. I’ve come across spirits who haven’t learned to communicate, and I’ve come across those who might be any friend chatting with you before a fire. We don’t know why. Then, there are some who are quick to appear before many people—and there are those who only appear after centuries and only because they believe they’ve found the person with whom they need to communicate.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. He stepped back. “Are we okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said thickly. “Want to hand me another tea bag?”

He did. She finished preparing the two cups of tea, picked up both of them and walked out to her parlor. She placed the cups on a coffee table and sat on the sofa, curling her legs beneath her. He sat across from her on one of the old carved wooden chairs. The place was nice, he thought. It was historic, but it had been treated lovingly and had aged well. It seemed to offer the best of the old and the new.

“What do you need from me?” she asked. Before he could answer, she asked, “How did you get here? Do you have a car out front? We’re really not supposed to hang out with guests.”

He leaned forward. “No car out there—I walked. I’m at Willis House and I have the room with the separate entrance. People saw me go into my room, but they didn’t see me leave. Even if they find out I’m not there, they won’t know where I am.”

“You walked? Willis House is several miles from here.”

“Yeah. Pretty country for walking. The temperature is great.”

She reached for her cup and took a sip of tea.

“And no one saw me—unless, of course, they were hiding in your bushes. But if someone was messing around outside your house, I think Sammy would’ve known. I heard him bark before I came up the walk.”

“Aaron told me today that he and the others would help me in any way they could,” she said.

Dustin felt his brow furrowing and made an effort to ease it. “They know you’re convinced that Marcus was murdered?”

“I—I didn’t exactly announce that he was murdered. But I did deny that he’d gone back on drugs.”

“Just to Aaron—or to everyone?”

She looked at him warily. “Well, to everyone. We had a meeting at the end of the day. Marcus’s lawyer is going to be at the Horse Farm tomorrow morning to discuss the will. We’re all mentioned in it, apparently. From what we know, the Horse Farm itself goes to Aaron Bentley, but I believe Marcus had safeguards written in. I don’t understand the legal ramifications of any of it. As far as we’re aware at this point, we go on exactly as we’ve been doing. We’re nonprofit, so it isn’t as if anyone stands to get rich.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know?”

He grinned. “Everyone has access to public records, Olivia. We have access to a little more than that.” He was quiet for a minute and then said, “That’s why it’s hard to understand why someone would have done this.”

“Do you think I’m in denial? Panicking?” Her tone was as stiff as her body.

“I didn’t say that you were in denial or panicking.”

“It’s everyone’s first thought, isn’t it?”

“First thought, maybe. But calling Malachi was the right thing.”

“You know Malachi?” she asked. “You’ve worked with him?”

“Yes, I’ve met Malachi. No, I haven’t worked with him. This is my first assignment with the Krewe of Hunters.”

“What?” She jumped up, sloshing tea, and then set her mug on the coffee table as she stared at him. “What? Oh, I don’t mean to be insulting, it’s just that...I call for help, and my cousin sends a newbie?”

“I’m hardly a newbie, Olivia,” he told her, trying not to lose his temper. She was looking at him as if he’d barely managed to graduate from high school. “I’ve been with the bureau. I’ve been a marine. I’ve been a cop. I think I’m up to the task.”

“I—I—I said I was sorry,” she said. “I’m not trying to offend you, but this isn’t... Well, you can see how much good it’s done to go to the police, to anyone—”

“And I told you that I believe you when you tell me you’re speaking to a dead man!” He was letting his voice grow too hard. She didn’t mean to offend. She wasn’t trying to do so.

But it seemed that she didn’t need to try.

She opened her mouth and closed it again, struggling for poise. He kept his own mouth shut, waiting. He was a professional, for God’s sake. He would act like one.

“Okay,” he said at last. “Cards on the table. I wasn’t thrilled to have my first Krewe assignment be a situation in which we’re not even officially invited and in which everyone I meet seems to think I’m a lawman run amok. Half of them assume I shot up a pool of suspects and the others figure I went crazy. Still, that’s part of the job. I said I believe you, and you need to do me the same courtesy. But you have to trust in me and keep me informed. And please don’t worry so much about my credentials. According to Jackson Crow, I’ve been on his radar for a while now, and when this came up, it seemed the right time for him to call on me. I’m from Nashville. I know the city and I know this area. Malachi couldn’t come himself—not with any real validity, or any real chance of blending in with the locals, if you will. Do you understand?”

She slowly sank back onto the couch.

“Yes,” she said flatly. She still didn’t look happy.

He shook his head and leaned forward. “There are laws, and this country has a constitution, Olivia. You’re fighting for a friend. You hoped that Malachi could get the government barging in and demanding that it all be solved. It doesn’t work that way. And that’s why we’re doing what we’re doing.”

“I said yes. My capacity for comprehension is actually pretty good.”

He wasn’t sure if she was trying to lighten up or if she was speaking seriously.

He leaned back again. “Okay, so tell me what happened with you.”

“With me?”

“The day Marcus was killed.”

“I’d had a few sessions and I’d just finished up with the last one when I heard a commotion going on. We knew something was wrong when Sammy came running to the Horse Farm, badly hurt. Marcus loved Sammy. And the dog was devoted to him. If Sammy was there, something had to be wrong with Marcus.”

“You didn’t let Sammy lead you back to him?”

“By then, the dog was exhausted. He’d lost too much blood. Physically, it would’ve been impossible for him to search. We did call the police, and two officers came out to help us look.” She was quiet for a minute, pensive, remembering. “I—I’ve never blacked out in my life before, but...after I found Marcus, I blacked out. When I came to, Aaron was at my side, the police were already making notes and...”

“And?”

“And then Marcus’s body was taken away.”

“Why did you black out?”

She pursed her lips. “You’re from this area, right?”

“I’m from Nashville. But naturally, growing up, I came out to the country plenty of times. Every school kid’s done some of the battlefield tours. I’ve been hiking, camping, skiing...you name it.” She was still quiet.

He smiled. “Ah.”

“Ah?”

“You’ve seen the general,” he said.

She sat straighter. “You know, then—you know about General Rufus Cunningham?”

“Everyone knows about him.” He grinned. “Okay, not everyone, but most people who’ve lived around here. My grandfather belonged to a Civil War roundtable. You know—groups of men who may or may not do reenactments, but who are fascinated by the history of the Civil War. They love to argue strategy. Which side did the right thing when, what could have changed the tide of battle. I’ve been to a few. They’re especially interesting here in Tennessee, because this state was so divided. Tennessee seceded from the Union, but the Union held Nashville early in the war, beginning in 1862. Pitched battles went on around Nashville, but the Confederates never regained the city. When they’re all arguing policy and strategy at the roundtables, they occasionally agree on one thing. Like the fact that General Rufus Cunningham was one hell of an interesting and commendable man. He was out to win back the city, but he was also a humanitarian. When he was in charge, the wounded were helped, no matter what the color of their uniform. He’d take personal and physical risk when necessary.”

She nodded. “It always seemed to me that his death was a terrible tragedy.” She paused again. “Have you ever seen him?”

“Yes.”

“You have?” She asked the question very carefully.

He nodded. “I was about sixteen. We were at the old Brentwood Campground. I’ve heard the acreage has been bought by a large corporation and is due for a major building operation, but back then it was a campground. It’s only a few miles from here and borders the same stream that runs through Horse Farm acreage. I woke up in the middle of the night during that camping trip. I was restless. Didn’t want to wake the other kid in my tent so I went outside. The general was standing by the stream, just staring at it, almost like he was keeping watch. He had a foot up on a rock. He was leaning on his knee with one arm and he held his horse’s reins in the other hand. He looked at me. I looked back at him. He tipped his hat, and I waved.”

“Did he disappear? Fade into the night?”

“No, he stayed there.”

“So—then what?”

“I waved again and went back to bed.”

“You weren’t frightened?”

“No. Are you still frightened when you see the dead?”

“Actually, I haven’t seen that many just wandering around. I’ve seen General Cunningham a few times. But half the world’s seen General Cunningham, or at least a lot of people believe they’ve seen him, so... And I know my cousin’s ghost. Zachary Albright. He’s been around since the American Revolution, but he’s... I don’t know. That was easy. Malachi was there and Malachi and I are the only two in the family, as far as we know, who...talk to the dead.”

“I don’t think anyone would need to be afraid of General Cunningham. He hated the war, hated pain and suffering. I think he stays around to try and prevent it,” Dustin said.

“Yeah. Maybe. And I’m not frightened of him.”

“But...you were frightened of Marcus Danby?”

“It was the way it all happened,” Olivia explained. “First, I found Marcus down in the ravine. Then, I saw General Cunningham up on his horse. Next thing I knew, I was with the body of Marcus Danby when the spirit of Marcus Danby tapped me on the shoulder. Frightened? Stunned? Both. But I’m not afraid of Marcus. He’s so...real.”

“Well, in a way, he is real. He’s just not flesh-and-blood real,” Dustin said.

“Strange dilemma, isn’t it?” she asked, and then gestured with one hand. “Anyway, I’m not prone to hysteria or passing out, but when I was holding Marcus, and Marcus was behind me at the same time, I passed out cold. Just like I told you. When I came to, there was no sign of Marcus’s spirit or the general’s.”

“But then Marcus visited you here?” he asked. “Twice?”

“Yes. This was the second time. But as soon as I walked to the door to let you in, he disappeared.”

“Does he know what happened to him?”

“He told me that Sammy ran ahead of him in the woods, barking. He went to find the dog—and after that, he doesn’t know. So, whoever did this was waiting for him.”

“Or happened to be there.”

“You don’t have heroin available to inject into someone if you’re not expecting to see that person,” Olivia said.

“Unless you were in the woods doing heroin and didn’t want to be found by Marcus Danby.”

“Why hurt the dog?” Olivia asked.

“Maybe Sammy attacked the person.”

“Sammy doesn’t attack.”

He smiled. “Glad to hear it. Or maybe not so glad. Olivia, if someone did intend to kill Marcus—”

“They more than intended it. They accomplished it,” she said. “I’m not making any of this up!”

“I never suggested you were. What I’m saying is that you might have put yourself in danger.”

That seemed to puzzle her. “Me? I have no power over anything.”

“Most murderers don’t want to get caught. Whoever killed Marcus has an agenda, which probably doesn’t include prison. That means his killer doesn’t want an investigation. This person wants Marcus’s death accepted as an accident. Your house is out here—with pasture and forest around it. Do you have an alarm system?”

“I have locks on all the doors and windows,” she told him.

“That’s not an alarm system.”

“You think someone would really break into my house to kill me?” she asked incredulously. “That would hardly be an accident.”

“All kinds of accidents can happen in a home,” he replied. “A fall down the stairs...a hair dryer being dropped in a tub or the sink. A slip on the floor. Trust me, ‘accidents’ can happen. Do you have a gun?”

“Yeah. I have a Revolutionary-era Brown Bess in a display box upstairs. And an 1853 Enfield rifle that my uncle found on this property. I’m afraid I have no ammunition for either of them—nor have I ever fired a gun.”

“You should be able to protect yourself. I’ll see that you have mace or pepper spray, at least,” he said.

“I have Sammy.”

“You just said Sammy’s not an attack dog.”

“But he’ll bark his head off,” she said. “He’ll give me plenty of warning.”

Dustin wasn’t sure that a dog barking was going to be enough. There was property around all the houses here. Lots of woods, lots of distance. No matter how good emergency services might be, it took time to get to the scene of a crime.

It only took seconds to kill.

But for the time being, he let it go and stood up. She stood, as well. “I guess I should go back, just in case anyone’s watching the activity around here. I’ll be back tomorrow night to make sure you’re armed to defend yourself. I’m going to text you my phone number. Get it into your home phone on speed dial and your cell phone’s list of contacts.”

She nodded. He was glad she wasn’t fighting him.

“Is Malachi going to be able to come at all?” she asked.

“I think that’s still up in the air,” he told her. So much for her faith in him.

He didn’t move for a moment, just looking at her. The woman was breathtaking and still, somehow, while she must have considerable strength of will given her work with people and animals, she had a touch of naiveté, too. She was slim and athletic, but well built. Her eyes were that haunting crystalline blue, touched with green. They compelled him to want to watch her; they also seemed to have a touch of vulnerability. Someone had died and, in her mind, he’d been definitely and irrefutably murdered. And Dustin didn’t doubt that she’d spoken with a ghost. She saw things others couldn’t.

Yet she didn’t see her own danger.

He suddenly felt as if they weren’t alone. It was a sensation he knew fairly well; he was being watched. Marcus Danby, he thought.

Marcus was nearby but wasn’t planning to show himself at the moment.

Olivia didn’t seem to be aware; she wasn’t accustomed to waiting for that feeling that was like catching a glimpse of something out of the corner of one’s eye.

“You can go out the back,” she was saying. “If you cut through the forest it’s dark, but there’s a decent moon out tonight.”

“That’s fine. That’s the way I came. My nocturnal vision’s pretty good, and then there’s this modern thing called a flashlight. I always have one with me,” he told her, offering a smile.

She didn’t smile in return. Instead, she looked at him gravely. “Be careful.”

“I’m not the person anyone’s going to be after,” he said.

“Oh? Really? They all know you’re an agent. What if the killer’s afraid you’ll be snooping around and then he wants you out of the picture?”

Maybe she wasn’t so naive.

“But I’m also a big guy who works out, has had training—and carries a big gun,” he said. “That does make me safer.”

“Hmm. All right, I’ll go along with that,” she conceded.

“By tomorrow night I’ll see that you at least have some mace. Friday night, we’ll both do the camping trip.”

“Camping and Ping-Pong,” she said.

“Exactly. Ping-Pong is a great way to get to know the people who hang out at the Horse Farm. And camping will give me a glimpse of a lot more. If we’re going to find out who did this to Marcus Danby, we need to find out why.”

“Okay,” she said. “That makes sense. Come on, I’ll walk you out back.”

Olivia led him through the kitchen, the dining room, something that now seemed to be a family room and, finally, out the back door. She was polite and agreeable.

“Make sure everything’s locked down tight,” he told her. “If someone’s determined to get in, they’ll figure out a way. But it’s best to make it as hard for them as possible. That gives you more time to call the cops or come up with an escape route yourself.”

“I will lock everything,” she promised.

He had the feeling that the minute he was gone, she’d be on the phone calling Malachi and asking him if the agent he’d sent was really capable of getting anything done.

* * *

Olivia had never been afraid in her own house before. Now it was inhabited by a ghost who appeared out of nowhere whenever he chose. And on top of that, she was worried that someone might try to break in while she was asleep.

It was still early. She returned to the kitchen, ready to forage through the refrigerator for something to eat. Instead, she walked around downstairs and then upstairs, closing and locking windows. When she was done, she checked the front door again, followed by the back door—even though she’d just locked it behind Dustin Blake.

There was nothing else to lock.

She returned to the kitchen once more only to freeze, startled.

Marcus was back.

“Thank you very much. You made me look like an idiot,” she said.

“I had to see who it was and make a judgment call,” Marcus told her. “Besides, I’m pretty sure he knew I was here.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve walked around the Horse Farm. I even waved my hands and tried to blow cold breath at people. They can’t see me. But this guy—I think he may be the real deal.”

“What are you talking about? He didn’t tell me he saw you.”

“I didn’t say he saw me. I said he knew I was around. I didn’t intend to be seen. Not yet.”

“Why not?” Olivia demanded, annoyed with him.

“I had to be sure he’s the one,” Marcus said.

“The one what?”

“Who could really help. I mean, if they’d just sent you a facts guy, we’d be in trouble. But I think he does believe you, and I know he can see and feel and sense what’s there—and what’s not.”

“You might have introduced yourself at the end, Marcus. And how will all these abilities actually make a difference? You weren’t killed by a ghost—were you?”

“No,” he said. “Someone flesh-and-blood killed me. But...now I’m sorry I asked for help. I want the killer caught and the truth exposed, but I hadn’t—well, I hadn’t recognized the danger I was putting you in.”

Now Marcus was telling her she should be afraid, too!

“So,” Marcus continued, “you have the agent here. He’ll investigate, and you just need to keep quiet from now on. If they say I fell back into drugs, let them say it.”

“Isn’t it too late?” she asked him. “They’re already saying it. And move, please. You’re blocking the refrigerator.”

“I can’t really block it,” he said, but he moved aside.

She reached in and brought out a head of lettuce, shaking it at him. “And quit appearing and disappearing.”

“All right. I’d, um, give you a hand if I could. Since I can’t...I’m going to go prowl around the Horse Farm and see what I can learn.”

Olivia set the lettuce on the cutting board and looked at him. She’d been about to warn him to be careful. She managed to refrain.

“Marcus, why do you think someone wanted you dead?”

“Let’s see. I wasn’t blackmailing anyone. I wasn’t sleeping with anyone’s wife. I wasn’t dealing drugs and I hadn’t robbed any banks. I’ll be damned if I know, Liv.”

“The property?”

“The Horse Farm is nonprofit, and while the management remains in the hands of Aaron Bentley, there’s nothing to be gained by my death. Oh, well, there are specific bequests in the will, but nothing anyone would kill for. Anyway, I’m off.”

“Are you coming back?” she asked him. “I’m so jumpy I actually wouldn’t mind having you around.”

“Keep everything locked up, like the fed told you.”

“But will you be back?”

He smiled. “Of course I’ll be back. I intend to watch out for you through the night.”

Sammy whined and Marcus leaned down to pat his head. Olivia thought the dog couldn’t possibly feel his hand.

And yet it was as if he did.

Then, just like Dustin Blake, he left through the back.

Except that Marcus didn’t have to open the door.

* * *

Dustin walked back to Willis House and entered his room by the private door. He put through a call to Malachi and told him he’d been to see Olivia and they’d talked about Marcus Danby. “Do you have anything more on the situation, or on Danby?” Dustin asked.

“Nothing that would explain why anyone wanted the man dead. The property is really only worth anything with a functioning business, and the business only functions if the Horse Farm is successful. The land is valuable to an extent, but there are acreages of similar land if someone was looking to buy, and some of it’s for sale. I don’t think anyone’s crawling out of the man’s past—the Horse Farm isn’t a rehab facility, it’s a therapy center. On paper, there’s nothing our people have been able to find. How is Olivia?”

“She’s fine. I’m sure she’s called you.”

“Not since you’ve been there,” Malachi said.

That was a surprise.

“She was asking about you coming out.”

“I need to handle this delicately. If local law enforcement believes we’re trying to home in on their territory, it could get dicey.”

“Right. Well, as far as I know, law enforcement considers his death an open-and-shut case.”

“What do you think?”

“I think your cousin has spoken to a ghost and that the ghost knows he was murdered,” Dustin said flatly.

“Tread carefully.”

“I intend to.”




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