Whisper of Evil Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Praise

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  SENSE OF EVIL

  ONCE A THIEF

  Bantam Books by KAY HOOPER

  Copyright Page

  This one is for Mama

  Praise for Kay Hooper’s

  STEALING SHADOWS

  “A fast-paced, suspenseful plot ... The story’s complicated and intriguing twists and turns keep the reader guessing until the chilling ending.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The first book in a ‘thrillogy’ which will feature back-to-back suspense novels by the awesome Ms. Hooper. If Stealing Shadows is any indication, readers are in for a terrific thrill ride.”

  —Romantic Times

  “This definitely puts Ms. Hooper in a league with Tami Hoag and Iris Johansen and Sandra Brown. Gold 5-star rating.”

  —Heartland Critiques

  HAUNTING RACHEL

  “A stirring and evocative thriller.”

  —Palo Alto Daily News

  “The pace flies, the suspense never lets up. It’s great reading.”

  —The Advocate, Baton Rouge

  “An intriguing book with plenty of strange twists that will please the reader.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “It passed the ‘stay up late to finish it in one night’ test.”

  —The Denver Post

  FINDING LAURA

  “You always know you are in for an outstanding read when you pick up a Kay Hooper novel, but in Finding Laura, she has created something really special! Simply superb!”

  —Romantic Times (gold medal review)

  “Hooper keeps the intrigue pleasurably complicated, with gothic touches of suspense and a satisfying resolution.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A first-class reading experience.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Ms. Hooper throws in one surprise after another.... Spellbinding.”

  —Rendezvous

  AFTER CAROLINE

  “Harrowing good fun. Readers will shiver and shudder.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Kay Hooper comes through with thrills, chills, and plenty of romance, this time with an energetic murder mystery with a clever twist. The suspense is sustained admirably right up to the very end.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Peopled with interesting characters and intricately plotted, the novel is both a compelling mystery and a satisfying romance.”

  —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “Kay Hooper has crafted another solid story to keep readers enthralled until the last page is turned.”

  —Booklist

  “Joanna Flynn is appealing, plucky and true to her mission as she probes the mystery that was Caroline.”

  —Variety

  AMANDA

  “Amanda seethes and sizzles. A fast-paced, atmospheric tale that vibrates with tension, passion, and mystery. Readers will devour it.”

  —Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Kay Hooper’s dialogue rings true; her characters are more three-dimensional than those usually found in this genre. You may think you’ve guessed the outcome, unraveled all the lies. Then again, you could be as mistaken as I was.”

  —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “Will delight fans of Phyllis Whitney and Victoria Holt.”

  —Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

  “Kay Hooper knows how to serve up a latter-day gothic that will hold readers in its brooding grip.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “I lapped it right up. There aren’t enough good books in this genre, so this stands out!”

  —Booknews from The Poisoned Pen

  “Kay Hooper has given you a darn good ride, and there are far too few of those these days.”

  —Dayton Daily News

  PROLOGUE

  MAY ... 12 YEARS AGO

  She didn’t know which was worse, the nausea or the terror. One threatened to choke her, while the other was a cold ache deeper than her bones.

  There was so much blood.

  How could one body hold so much blood?

  She looked down and saw a ribbon of scarlet reaching slowly across the wooden floor for the toe of her pretty shoe. The floor was old and out of level, just enough. Just enough. That was the logical reason, of course, the mind’s understanding that the blood wasn’t actually reaching out for her, it was just flowing along the line of least resistance, downhill, and she happened to be in the path.

  Her mind knew that.

  But terror pushed aside logic and all understanding. The blood was a crimson finger curling toward her, searching for her, slow, accusing. It wanted to touch her, wanted to ... mark her.

  I did it. I did this.

  The words echoed in her head as she stared at the accusing finger of blood. It was almost hypnotic, watching the blood inch toward her, waiting for it to touch her. It was almost preferable to looking at what else was in the room.

  She moved before the blood reached her, stepping to one side in a slow, jerky motion. Escaping. And made herself look up, look at the room. Look at it.

  The room itself was a shambles. Overturned furniture with ripped fabric and scattered cushions, ancient newspapers and musty-smelling magazines tossed about, the few rag rugs on the floor bunched up or draped absurdly across an upended table. And everywhere, crimson smears darkening and turning rusty as they dried.

  There was a red, desperate handprint on the wall near where the phone was supposed to be, though that instrument had been ripped from the wall and now lay in an impotent tangle near the fireplace. The pale curtains on the front window also bore a bloody handprint, and the rod had been pulled loose at one side, obviously from the futile attempt to signal for help or even to escape.

  There had been no help, no escape.

  No escape.

  Death hadn’t come quickly. There were so many stab wounds, most of them shallow. Painful, but not fatal—at least not immediately. The once-white shirt was almost completely red, glistening here and there where the blood was still wet, darkened to a rusty crimson where it had begun to dry. And the garment was ripped and torn, like the pants, both riddled with those knife slashes of fury.

  Rage. So much rage.

  She heard a whimpering sound, and for an instant the hairs on the back of her neck rose in the terrifying idea that the dead could make pitiful noises like that. But then she realized the sound came from her own throat, from deep inside where there was no language, only primitive horror.

  My fault. My fault. I did it.

  That’s what her mind kept saying, over and over, dully, like a litany, while from the depths of her soul that wordless whimper quavered like some creature lost and in pain.

  She looked around almost blindly, trying not to see the blood, the rage, and the hate, and a glint of something metallic abruptly caught her eye. She focused on that. Silver. A silver chain with a heart-shaped locket lying near the body, just inches from bloodstained fingers.
/>   It took her several long seconds to recognize and understand what she was seeing. Silver chain. Locket.

  Silver chain.

  Locket.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Numbly, she looked down again and saw the finger of blood turn suddenly, curl toward her with determination, and before she could move, it touched the pale toe of her party shoe. The thin material soaked up the blood quickly, the scarlet stain spreading, wrapping her shrinking flesh.

  My fault. My fault.

  I did it.

  She moaned and lifted shaking hands to cover her face, unable to watch an instant longer. Waiting for the blood to cover her foot and then begin to inch up her bare leg, defying gravity in its determination to swallow her.

  She waited for that cold, wet sensation. But it never came. The silence closed over her, thick and curiously muffled, the way a snowy morning sounded when the earth was insulated by inches of the white stuff. She realized she was listening intently, waiting for ... something.

  It was worse, not seeing. Her imagination saw more than the blood reaching out for her, saw a bloody hand, an accusing face streaked with scarlet lifting toward her, suffering eyes filled with condemnation—

  She gasped and jerked her hands away from her face.

  There was no body.

  No blood.

  No violently disturbed room.

  She stared around at a room that looked as it always did: spare and a little shabby, the floral fabrics on the couch and at the windows faded by time and the sun, the rag rugs a cheerful attempt to bring in color and hide the bad places on the old wooden floor.

  She looked down to find her party shoe pristine, not marked by blood or even dirt, because she’d been so careful, so determined to look her best tonight. To be perfect.

  Very slowly, she backed out of the house. She gave the undisturbed room another long look, then pulled the door closed with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. She stood on the porch, staring at the door, and slowly the whimper deep in her throat bubbled into a laugh.

  Once it started, she couldn’t stop it. Like something with a life of its own, it flowed out of her, the sound of it high, so high she was sure it would fall to the hard wooden porch and break into a million pieces any second. She clapped her hand over her mouth and still the laughter bubbled out, until her throat hurt, until the sound of it frightened her almost more than the inexplicable scene she had witnessed.

  Until, finally, it died away.

  Her hand fell limply to her side, and she heard herself murmur hoarsely, “God help me.”

  MARCH ... PRESENT DAY

  It was late when George Caldwell got to bed, mostly because he’d been surfing the Internet looking for the best travel deals. He was planning a trip to Hawaii.

  He was always planning something. He loved lists, loved managing details, loved making plans. Sometimes the event itself was less fun than planning it. Well, most of the time, if he was honest about it. But not this time. This was going to be the trip of a lifetime, that was the plan.

  When the phone rang, he answered it from the depths of what had been a pleasant dream. “Yeah, what?”

  “You’ll pay.”

  Caldwell fumbled for the lamp on his nightstand and blinked when the light came on and nearly blinded him. It was a moment before he could focus on the clock well enough to see that it was two o’clock. In the morning.

  He pushed the covers aside and sat up. “Who is this?” he demanded indignantly.

  “You’ll pay.”

  It was a low voice, a whisper really, without identifying characteristics; he couldn’t even tell if he was speaking to a man or a woman.

  “What are you talking about? Pay for what? Who the hell is this?”

  “You’ll pay,” the caller breathed a final time, then hung up softly.

  Caldwell held the receiver away from his ear and stared at it for a moment, then slowly hung up the phone.

  Pay? Pay for what, for Christ’s sake?

  He wanted to laugh. Tried to. Just some stupid kid, probably, or a crank caller old enough to know better. Instead of asking if his refrigerator was running, it was just a different idiotic question, that was all it was.

  That was all.

  Still, Caldwell wasted a minute wondering who he’d pissed off lately. Nobody sprang immediately to mind, and he shrugged as he got back into bed and turned off the lamp.

  Just some stupid kid, that’s all.

  That’s all it was.

  He put it out of his mind and eventually went back to sleep, dreaming once again about Hawaii, about tropical beaches and white sands and clear blue water.

  George Caldwell had plans.

  He hadn’t planned on dying.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TUESDAY, MARCH 21

  Whoever had dubbed the town Silence must have gotten a laugh out of it, Nell thought as she closed the door of her Jeep and stood on the curb beside the vehicle. For a relatively small town, it was not what anyone would have called peaceful even on an average day; on this mild weekday in late March, at least three school groups appeared to be trying to raise money for something or other with loud and cheerful car washes in two small parking lots and a bake sale going on in the grassy town square. And there were plenty of willing customers for the kids, even with building clouds promising a storm later on.

  Nell hunched her shoulders and slid her cold hands into the pockets of her jacket. Her restless gaze warily scanned the area, studying the occasional face even as she listened to snatches of conversation as people walked past her. Calm faces, innocuous talk. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  It didn’t look or sound like a town in trouble.

  Nell glanced through the window of her Jeep at the newspaper folded on the passenger seat; there hadn’t been much in yesterday’s local daily to indicate trouble. Not much, but definitely hints, especially for anyone who knew how to read between the lines.

  Not far from where she stood was a newspaper vendor selling today’s edition, and she could easily make out the headline announcing the town council’s decision to acquire property on which to build a new middle school. There was, as far as she could see, no mention on the front page of anything of greater importance than that.

  Nell walked over to buy herself a paper and returned to stand beside her Jeep as she quickly scanned the three thin sections. She found it where she expected to find it, among the obituaries.

  GEORGE THOMAS CALDWELL,

  42, UNEXPECTEDLY, AT HOME.

  There was more, of course. A long list of accomplishments for the relatively young man, local and state honors, business accolades. He had been very successful, George Caldwell, and unusually well-liked for a man in his position.

  But it was the unexpectedly Nell couldn’t get past. Someone’s idea of a joke in very poor taste? Or was the sheriff’s department refusing to confirm media speculation of only a day or so ago about the violent cause of George Caldwell’s death?

  Unexpected. Oh, yeah. Murder usually was.

  “Jesus. Nell.”

  She refolded the newspaper methodically and tucked it under her arm as she turned to face him. It was easy to keep her expression unrevealing, her voice steady. She’d had a lot of practice—and this was one meeting she had been ready for.

  “Hello, Max.”

  Standing no more than an arm’s length away, Max Tanner looked at her, she decided, rather the way he’d look at something distasteful he discovered on the bottom of his shoe. Hardly surprising, she supposed.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was just uneven enough to make it obvious he couldn’t sound as impersonal and indifferent as he wanted to.

  “I could say I was just passing through.”

  “You could. What’s the truth?”

  Nell shrugged, keeping the gesture casual. “I imagine you can guess. The will’s finally through probate, so there’s a lot I have to do. Go through things, clear out the house, arrange to sell it. If
that’s what I end up doing, of course.”

  “You mean you’re not sure?”

  “About selling out?” Nell allowed her mouth to curve in a wry smile. “I’ve had a few doubts.”

  “Banish them,” he said tightly. “You don’t belong here, Nell. You never did.”

  She pretended that didn’t hurt. “Well, we agree on that much. Still, people change, especially in—what?— a dozen years? Maybe I could learn to belong.”

  He laughed shortly. “Yeah? Why would you want to? What could there possibly be in this pissant little town to interest you?”

  Nell had learned patience in those dozen years, and caution. So all she said in response to that harsh question was a mild “Maybe nothing. We’ll see.”

  Max drew a breath and shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, gazing off toward the center of town as if the bake sale going on there fascinated him.

  While he was deciding what to say next, Nell studied him. He hadn’t changed much, she thought. Older, of course. Physically more powerful now in his mid-thirties; he probably still ran, still practiced the martial arts that had been a lifelong interest. In addition, of course, to the daily physical labors of a cattle rancher. Whatever he was doing, it was certainly keeping him in excellent shape.

  His lean face was a bit more lived-in than it had been, but just as with so many really good-looking men, the almost-too-pretty features of youth were maturing with age into genuine and striking male beauty—beauty that was hardly spoiled at all by the thin, grim line of his mouth. The passage of the years had barely marked that face in any negative way. There might have been a few threads of silver in the dark hair at his temples, and she didn’t remember the laugh lines at the corners of his heavy-lidded brown eyes....

  Bedroom eyes. He’d been known for them all through school, for bedroom eyes and a hot temper, both gifts from a Creole grandmother. Maturity had done nothing to dampen the smoldering heat lurking in those dark eyes; she wondered if it had taught him to control the temper.

  It had certainly taught her to control hers.

  “You’ve got a hell of a nerve, I’ll say that for you,” he said finally, that intense gaze returning to her face.

  “Because I came back? You must have known I would. With Hailey gone, there was no one else to . . . take care of things.”