Midnight Masquerade

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  ImaJinn Books

  www.imajinnbooks.com

  Copyright ©2001 by Nancy Gideon

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Prologue

  There.

  There it was again.

  Clutching her purse with its woeful $38.57 in folded bills and change inside, she glanced over her shoulder without slowing her step. As before, the sidewalk behind her was empty.

  Despite the sweltering July heat, hair prickled up on the nape of her neck, creating a cold trickle down her back.

  No one there. Just her imagination.

  Quickening her pace to match the increased rhythm of her heartbeats, she hurried toward the transit opening. She loved everything about her new job except the evening hours. Walking the nearly abandoned D.C. streets gave her the creeps and aptly described the type of people she usually brushed past in her rush for home. Driving her car through the snarl of traffic when she was a brisk three blocks from the Metro seemed foolish during daylight hours, and she was trying so hard to maintain her new air of financial responsibility. Her father would approve. And so would her dyed-in-the-wool common sense friend, Rae. But when the pulsing energy of the working world became the seeping shadows of evening, it seemed far less foolish to toss off her desire to make those two role models proud and spring for the extravagance of a cab. Especially with her heart hammering in her chest and her paranoia galloping full tilt at every sound. Then it was harder to live up to her new life of respectable frugality.

  Close to midnight, crime statistics had an annoying habit of haunting her.

  But then her father and her bold former friend were afraid of nothing—not of daily challenges to behave as responsible adults, not of the constant struggle to live within the wages earned, not of the uncertainty of carving out a new life alone. But she was getting braver. Even Rae would be impressed by her sensible outlet store clothing and strict regime of healthy habits.

  She concentrated on the destination rather than the journey, on taking off the tight new sandals that had looked so snappy on the shelf but felt like an Inquisitor's boot when her toes swelled up at midday. A pint of rainbow sherbet and the caress of the air conditioner beckoned at the end of her fifteen minute ride. Rewards for a long day and a silly fright. Eager to shake them both off, she started down the steps of the Metro tunnel, anticipating the cool that came with subterranean travel.

  She paused at the top of the escalators as that shivery feeling crawled along her arms and marched in an uneasy ripple down her spine. A quick glance showed an empty stairway and the night sky above.

  Chuckling softly at her case of hyperactive nerves, she stepped onto the escalator and began the descent into the bowels of D.C.

  The Metro system was a boon to tourists and employees alike, providing cheap, reliable transportation every five minutes during the rush hours to just about anyplace one needed to go. Once you got used to the transfer stations, carrying correct change and the color-coded lines, it was sit back and leave the driving to them. She knew the underground system better than the streets above and felt comfortable riding the rail ... once she got to it.

  It was that first step that always got her.

  Of all the stops, this was the only one that made her hold her breath as if she were taking an e-ticket excursion straight to hell.

  The escalator plunged into darkness, its pitch so steep, its drop so far that one couldn't see top nor bottom to gage a final or starting destination. Suspended in some eerie Twilight Zone where one could only guess at the world where one would finally emerge, the ride went on forever.

  Too much late night TV, she thought with another chiding chuckle as she glided deeper into the earth.

  That's when the lights flickered out, and the metal step beneath her shuddered to a stop.

  Darkness. Complete and cold.

  She spoke a soft explicative. Annoyance settled before alarm. Now what? Start climbing back up and foot the expense of a cab or continue down and hope this was an isolated failure and that the train would be there for its twelve-minute interval. She couldn't see the bottom of the escalator to tell if the lights were on below, and the idea of feeling her way down into that black oblivion held no appeal.

  Well, it was onward and upward and the cost of a cab.

  Taking a deep breath in anticipation of the climb ahead and a tight hold on the rubberized rail, she turned. And stumbled back several steps.

  Above her in the dark were twin pindots of red, like lasers shining in the blackness.

  Repair technicians.

  Her breath expelled in a relieved rush.

  "Thank goodness. The lights went out,” she called to the figure above her. “Do you know if the train's still running?"

  Her questions echoed and hung unanswered.

  The fiery dots began to descend smoothly, as if the escalator was still moving.

  "Hello? Can you help me?"

  Silence. No sound of footsteps on the metal risers.

  Hair stirred to attention upon her nape again.

  Briefly, she thought of abandoning her cramping shoes and running down into the tunnel. She considered sliding down the separating steel between the up and down escalators then recalled the upraised metal studs embedded to prevent such mischievous behavior. No help there.

  Remembering the credit card-sized flashlight her father had given her to attach to her apartment keys so she could locate her door lock after dark, she fumbled in her purse as the glowing twin dots came closer, closer. Her breath gusted loudly, the only noise in the chill tunnel until the clatter of her lipstick and car keys against the grated steps. She dug more frantically, beginning to retreat, backing down the immobile escalator as sobs panted from her. Her fingers closed on the flashlight. She jerked it free, her purse falling from her shaking hands. She heard its contents spill into the void of blackness below.

  Holding the flat pocket light in both hands, she pressed down on the sensor pad. A thin beam shot upward, wavering wildly, illuminating steps, blank walls, impotent lights ... and then a sight so terrifying all logic fled her.

  Thin lips pulled back from horrible fangs.

  She dropped the light and raced downward toward hope of possible salvation, slipping on the strewn contents of her bag as she ran.

  A sudden push of air, cold and silent, descended upon her.

  Her scream trailed down into darkness, thinning then stopping all together.

  After a long moment, the lights blinked back on. The escalators began their efficient humming, until steps splattered with crimson disappeared beneath the bottom plate.

  Chapter

  One

  Umbrella tops crowded together like mushroom caps growing in the shadows of a slated sky. After a morning of continuous drizzle, puddled walks provided a challenge for the stylishly dressed groups hurrying toward their luxury cars to get out of the weather and away from the dismal scene. No one liked to linger in a graveyard, even on the best of days. On this one, only the heavens remained to weep for the one they buried. The heavens and Rae Borden.

  She'd arrived too late to hear the comforting words of a life eternal spoken over the casket of her best friend. She'd only heard the news six hours before and was still reeling from shock and denial. She'd taken the first plane out of Detroit and still held her hastily packed overnight bag as she watched an indifferent
grounds crew begin to disassemble the drooping mourners’ canopy. Flowers hung limp and skewed from the weight of the water as a heavier rain pelted a baleful tympani off the metal folding chairs. Only as the loneliness of the scene struck her did Rae really begin to believe.

  Ginny Grover was gone.

  Her best friend, her pseudo-sister and soul mate.

  Dead. And now buried.

  And she hadn't had the chance to say good-bye.

  There was no reason to remain as the rain swept down in merciless sheets, soaking the freshly turned earth, fluttering the ribbons of the graveside wreaths bearing the grieving words, Beloved Daughter. There was nothing more to be done here, nothing she could do for the body of Ginny Grover encased in satin, brass and mahogany for her eternal sleep underground.

  But if there was something she could do to make her friend's memory rest easier within her heart and soul, she would see it done before saying her final farewell.

  That was the graveside promise she made in place of a prayer.

  * * * *

  Memories came rushing back as she piloted her rental car up the wide horseshoe drive of the Grovers's country home. Some of those remembrances, like that of two young girls learning to drive a stick shift and ending up in the azaleas, made her smile briefly. But others were too painful to embrace without breaking down completely. Those she would cherish when she was alone, taking them out one by one to examine then store away as if they were delicate Christmas ornaments wrapped in a protective tissue of emotion and bittersweet recall.

  And then there was her last memory—that of driving away from this home, this family, in anger and disgrace. It was that moment that made her doubt her welcome, that ugly parting that made her ache for a place she could no longer call home, for these people she should no longer think of as family. For four years she'd been waiting for a reason to come back, hoping for an invitation. But when the invitation finally came, it wasn't to mend those damaged fences but to bury forever her last chance for forgiveness.

  She needed to know how Ginny Grover had died. And why.

  An accident was what the report had read. She'd had it faxed to her and had agonized over every detail it hadn't explained. Like how Ginny had fallen from the platform in front of the oncoming train. There'd been no witnesses other than the horrified conductor who'd had no time to stop or even slow. Like why, if it was an intentional suicide, her purse and its scattered contents had been found at the escalator instead of where she had died.

  Unless she hadn't died in the fall.

  Unless someone had been chasing her.

  The unfortunate thing about trains was that they left so little evidence behind.

  Except one odd piece that had puzzled her when reading it. One strange, unexplained observation that gave her a moment's pause.

  Ginny Grover's body had been a nearly bloodless corpse.

  Was she the only one who wondered why?

  First, she would pay her respects to the man who'd been like a father to her. Then she'd bulldoze her way into the local investigation to get at the real facts of the case.

  Rae hadn't been inside the house since that last disastrous evening four years before. There'd been subtle music and well-dressed guests and long tables of catered food at that event, too. Only today, they weren't celebrating a future about to unfold. That truth wedged hotly in Rae's throat on the edge of a sob. At any minute, she expected to hear the slightly bawdy laughter ringing a bit too loudly over the subdued conversation. If she looked up, would she see the willowy figure in designer clothes and tennis shoes descending the slow curl of the staircase ... or sliding down its polished bannister? The ache of knowing neither of those things would ever be a part of her world again swelled hurtfully within her breast.

  How could Ginny be gone? How could one senseless, violent act end such a vibrant presence? One that still shimmered with firefly incandescence through the conservative rooms?

  "Rae, so glad you could make it."

  This was the moment she'd dreaded, this confrontation with those she'd humiliated so publicly upon her last visit to their home. As much as she yearned to reach out to share in the terrible pain of loss and mourning, she held herself back, unsure of her reception.

  "Thank you for calling me. I'm sure that wasn't easy for you ... considering.” She'd tried for a neutral tone, but her voice wavered. Just as Bette Grover's polite smile wavered.

  "Don't be ridiculous, Rae. Of course we'd call you. You were her best friend, regardless of how things ended. That's what we'll remember. The rest just isn't important anymore."

  Not quite open-armed acceptance, just a weary truce. She'd take it.

  Struggling for control against the tidal force of gratitude and grief, she presented her cheek to the soft, scented press of Bette Grover's, murmuring, “Where is he?"

  Bette, still remarkably unlined for all her fifty-three years, as if age or gravity wouldn't dare disturb such beauty, was ever the perfect hostess. Even in the waning hours of her stepdaughter's funeral, she remembered to ask after Rae's flight and to commend her paltry luggage and wet coat into the care of one of the hired crew. Then the facade wavered slightly as she beheld her daughter's friend through welling eyes. Her voice shook as she finally addressed her question.

  "He's in the study. It'll do him good to see you. The last few days have been ... difficult."

  How could they have been anything else to a man for whom the sun rose and set upon his only child?

  The study had been father and daughter's refuge. They'd celebrated the addition of each trophy in the wall-to-wall glass case, whether it be for forensic speaking or scratch golf or the sixth grade science fair. They'd wept on the big leather sofa as Ginny's mother struggled upstairs in a losing battle against cancer. They'd discussed math problems and boyfriend problems and college choices across the big teakwood desk as if making global policies. And Rae had been a part of it, like family.

  Thomas Grover stood before that wall of glass studying the polished plaques engraved with his daughter's accomplishments. He didn't turn to address her but rather acknowledged her presence by speaking as if she hadn't just arrived.

  "I told her that horse was too big for her, but would she listen? She proved me wrong, didn't she? And she and that big brute ... what was his name?"

  "Charlemagne,” Rae supplied softly.

  "Yes. Charlemagne. She wouldn't admit that he was too much for her until after she'd won the trophy. Because you had told her she could do it, and she was afraid of letting you down. Stubborn child, like her mother. What am I going to do without her, Rae?"

  She walked to him then, slipping her arms about a figure that had just started to relax into a heavier middle as the result of success. With her head resting against his broad back, with her hands crushed up in his big, callused palms, she finally admitted, “I don't know."

  "She missed you, Rae. All she could talk about was making you proud. Your opinion meant everything."

  Rae shuddered with remorse and whispered, “I was proud."

  They stood like that for a long while, until a tap on the door brought them back from their private well of misery.

  "Thomas, our guests are asking for you."

  "In a minute, Bette."

  Wordlessly, his new wife withdrew. He'd waited almost eight years after Ellen died to remarry. The mourning period had been almost operatic. Then Bette—bright, efficient, loving Bette—had forced his life back on course. Only to have it steer astray once more with this new devastation. His sigh was tremendous, overwrought with pain and sorrow.

  "What happened?” Rae asked at last.

  Never in all their years together had Thomas Grover been less than completely honest with her. Never until this moment.

  "I don't know, Rae. An accident. A tragic accident. How could it have been anything else?"

  Indeed. How could it have been?

  All Rae's professionally honed instincts came into play, reading between those carefully ten
dered lines to find unspoken volumes of guilt and evasion.

  What wasn't he telling her?

  "I know this isn't exactly the best time—"

  Grover pulled away from her embrace to stalk to the sideboard, splashing a large quantity of rarely consumed Scotch into a tall glass. He drank it down neat in two big swallows. “Is there ever going to be a good time to discuss a daughter's death?” His voice grated rough with the burn of liquor and regret.

  "Do you think it was suicide?"

  "Ginny?” A harsh laugh. “Ginny loved life. She loved her new job. She was in love. The idea of her killing herself is as obscene as her death."

  "No money troubles, no man troubles, no emotional troubles—none of that?"

  "No.” Said quietly. “No.” With more force of conviction. “An accident,” he repeated, as if trying to convince himself that it was true.

  Neither of them believed it for a minute.

  Grover reached for the decanter, then his hand hung, trembling, just shy of grasping it. Finally, he lowered it and murmured, “I should see to our guests. You'll be staying, of course.” Not a question.

  "Yes. For a few days."

  For however long it took to discover the truth.

  The truth Thomas Grover was hiding from her.

  * * * *

  He'd never get used to riding in style. He was an old, beat up Camaro with a rumbling muffler kind of guy. If folks looked his way, it was because he was breaking sound ordinance laws and leaving four feet of rubber on the ground. They'd shake their heads, thinking he'd be in jail by the time he was thirty. Wouldn't their eyeballs just pop if they could see him now, leaning back into seats of butter soft leather so form fitting they almost swallowed him whole, wearing shoes that cost more than that first fast car, sporting a haircut that would have taken his first paycheck and change. When people stared now, it was because they were impressed by the pewter-colored limo with its mysterious tinted windows. Inside they'd expect to find a success story in Italian loafers, not a hell-raiser from a poor parish outside Baton Rouge. How amusing to be both at the same time.