Jonah Ries didn’t see the fog coming any more than he could see the future. But he felt it. At first just a disquieting sense of foreboding. Then he came roaring up over a rise in the rocky landscape and saw the sign, Welcome to Moriah’s Landing, and he knew, a soul-deep knowing, that this was the last place on earth he should be.
He slowed his motorcycle, the feeling of darkness so strong he could see himself flipping a U-turn in the middle of the road, throttling up the bike, his taillight growing dimmer and dimmer beneath the twisted dark limbs snaking over the pavement.
But he could no more turn back than he could convince himself he had nothing to fear in Moriah’s Landing. He knew what he would risk coming here. A hell of a lot more than just his life, he thought as he swept down the hill, passing St. John’s Cemetery without looking in that direction, and heading for the wharf.
Overhead, a half-moon rode the star-specked sky, reminding him he had five days, tops.
He felt the first hint of the fog long before he saw it. Small patches of dampness brushed past his face, ghostlike as spiderwebs. But the moment he turned down Waterfront Avenue, the mist moved in as thick as wet concrete, obliterating everything, forcing him to pull over, park his bike and walk the rest of the way.
Might as well just get it over with. He reached under the left side of his leather jacket for the reassuring feel of his .38 nestled in the shoulder holster. Snug as a bug. Too bad what he feared most couldn’t be killed with a bullet. Not even a silver one.
He made his way along the brick sidewalk toward the faint beat of the neon bar sign at the end of the street, unable to throw off the ominous feeling he’d gotten at just the sight of the town’s sign.
Nor had he realized how late it was until he noticed that the shops were all dark, locked up for the night. Of course, it wasn’t Memorial Day yet. That’s when the tiny Massachusetts town would come alive with tourists, especially this year, with Moriah’s Landing celebrating its 350th anniversary.
Tourists would flock here for the beach—and the witch folklore, bringing a morbid fascination for the town’s dark, witch-hanging past.
Tonight, though, the small township lay cloaked in a fog of obscurity, silent as McFarland Leary’s grave, as if waiting for something to happen. Unfortunately, Jonah feared he knew what that something was.
“Hey!” A voice came out of the darkness from the end of the street near the blurred, flashing bar sign for the Wharf Rat. Jonah could barely make out the form, but instantly recognized it, just as the man coming out of the bar had recognized him.
“Hey.” The man staggered forward, then stopped, clearly jarred momentarily from his drunken state.
Jonah reached blindly for the first door next to him, grabbed the handle and turned, praying it wouldn’t be locked, but prepared to use whatever it took to get in. He shoved with his shoulder as he turned the handle, losing his balance in surprise as the door fell open and he stumbled in, closing it behind him.
“You’re late,” a female voice admonished.
He froze, his back to the dark room. From beyond it, a narrow path of light ran across the carpet to his feet. He turned slowly, comforted by the feel of the .38.
She stood behind a large antique desk, one hand on her hip, her head cocked to the side so her long mane of raven’s-wing-black hair hung down past her shoulder like a wave. He could feel her gaze, dark and searching, long before he stepped close enough to really see her face.
“Sorry,” he said without thinking. He had plenty to be sorry about so he didn’t mind.
Her eyes narrowed. “I guess you didn’t get my last e-mail.”
He shook his head. Unfortunately, he hadn’t gotten any of her e-mails.
“Are you ready?” she asked, sounding a little unsure of herself. He sensed this was new territory for her.
Ready? He watched her pick up her purse and jacket and then hesitate. He couldn’t help but stare at her. She had the most interesting face he’d ever seen. Wide-set dark navy-blue eyes with dense lashes, a full, almost pouty, mouth and high cheekbones, all put together in a way that startled and interested him at the same time.
“Yes?” she asked, eyeing him, definitely not sure now. “Is there a problem?”
Not unless being totally confused was a problem. He started to tell her that she was making a mistake. But then she came around the corner of the desk and he got the full effect of her little black dress.
Wow. It was a knockout on her, formfitting against the warm olive glow of her skin. Silver glittered on her wrist, dangled from the lobes of her ears and swept the curve of her neck and throat. Nestled in the hollow between her breasts hung a small silver lighthouse charm.
“Did you have some spot in mind?” she asked. The tap of her heels drew his attention back up to her face as she moved toward him.
He had lots of spots in mind. But she’d caught him on a night when he was already off-kilter and she was the last thing he’d expected to run across. So it took him longer than it should have to realize she thought he was her date—an online blind date, it seemed. Even worse. And from the way she was dressed, they were going out for a drink. Maybe a late supper.
Unfortunately, her “real” date would probably be along any minute. Jonah realized he’d be damn disappointed when that happened. The problem was, leaving here right now wasn’t an option.
At least not out the front door where he feared the man he’d seen would be looking for him.
Past her, he saw a way out—literally. A back exit and a chance to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.
“How about the Moriah’s Landing Inn?” he asked, realizing he had a better chance with her than alone if he hoped to avoid the man he’d just seen in the street. The hotel was only a few doors up on Main Street and had a very nice restaurant. And it was easy to get to since he figured he was probably supposed to be driving a car. Which he wasn’t. More important, they could get to it quickly by going down the narrow alley out back, therefore cutting down the chance of an ugly confrontation with his past.
“Great,” she said, sounding a little surprised.
Probably because of the way he looked. “I apologize for the way I’m dressed,” he said, glancing down at the jeans, biking boots and the laundry-worn blue chambray shirt he wore underneath his old brown leather jacket. He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw, then raked it on up through his hair. Not exactly hot-date material.
She looked down at her dress. It hit about thigh-high on her legs. Black platform sandals gave her a few more inches in height, putting them on about the same level. Her eyes came back to him, a tantalizing flush to her cheeks. “Is the dress too—”
“It’s perfect,” he said, meaning it. “You look sensational.” Meaning that, too.
She quirked a smile at him and ducked her head. “Thanks.”
Yes, definitely new territory for her. This was a woman who didn’t often feel vulnerable. But she did right now. He couldn’t help but wonder why. Even if he hadn’t had to make a quick getaway, her vulnerability made him all the more anxious to get her out of here before her real date arrived.
He glanced out the front window toward the street, the fog dense as chowder. No sign of the dark figure he’d seen earlier. “Why don’t we go out the back? It’s closer that way.”
She lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. He helped her with her jacket, wondering how much she knew about her real date, and opened the back door, glancing down the quaint brick alley to make sure no one was waiting for him.
As they left, he noticed the small sign hanging over the back door. Ridgemont Detective Agency. She worked for a private investigator? Just his luck.
He could hear music and the faint