Under Lock And Key. Sylvie Kurtz

It was the baby, the guilt. There was no psychotic stalker, no wicked stepmother, no greedy half sister out to harm his niece.

      “I hope you’re worth it, lady.” He gritted his teeth and concentrated on walking.

      “Damn you, Freddy, for cashing in your chip, and damn you, Lindsey, for dying.” No, he didn’t mean that. It wasn’t her fault. He sneered. Yeah, most people would say it was his fault. His beautiful wife. If he hadn’t been so ambitious. If he’d known when to let go. If he hadn’t pushed the wrong person too far. Then Lindsey would still be alive, and he’d still be a hero. He rested for a moment against a sign that read No Outlet. “Great. Just great. I’m heading nowhere.”

      The road came to a sudden end. Lightning crazed the sky, flickering a mirage before him. The photographs had not done Thornwylde Castle justice.

      Before him was a fortress straight out of Camelot—moat, drawbridge, towers and all. Castles belonged in England, not the wilds of North Texas. Took a rich eccentric like William Carnes to import a castle and plop it on land more suited to ranch bungalows. Took a peculiar woman like Melissa Carnes to live there and pass herself off as a witch. But she was Freddy’s niece, and Tyler had promised to keep her safe.

      Head pounding, he dragged himself over the wooden bridge that spanned a water-filled moat and found himself faced with a barred and closed entrance gate. Three stairs, that to his aching body, seemed as unscalable as Mount Everest, stood to the left and led to a smaller door. With his last ounce of strength he hoisted himself up the steps and knocked on the door.

      He leaned against the rain-slicked wood. His body crumpled under his weight and his face buried itself in the prickly doormat. A wave of heaviness surged through him and filled him with the same darkness that surrounded him.

      And as the last thread of thought snapped into black, an overwhelming sense of evil engulfed him.

      RAY LUNDY sat alone in the cab of his pickup truck in the middle of nowhere, waiting for the prearranged two-short-and-one-long signals of light. He couldn’t have asked for a better atmosphere if he’d had a straight line to God. Drenching rain poured from a sky darker than Hades, and the eerie strobelike dance of the wizened oak branches around him added just the right touch.

      His contact wanted anonymity. Well, hell, you couldn’t get more lost than in this part of Parker County. Ray pressed the button that lit his digital watch. He’d give his contact five more minutes, then he’d leave.

      Only fools went out on a night like this. Even the witch wouldn’t venture out of her castle tonight. No, anyone with half a brain would stay home, heeding the weatherman’s forecast of possible tornadoes in the North-Texas area.

      Though the purr of the idling engine offered a measure of comfort, Ray flipped on the heater button to stave off the chill. He didn’t dare turn on the radio. Not that anyone would be out on a night like this, but he’d hate to be caught unawares. Instead, he let the rhythm of the rain on the pickup’s roof keep his thoughts company.

      Ray knew he was a fool, but if things kept going his way, it wouldn’t be for much longer. Soon, very soon, he’d give his job the kiss-off and be his own man. He’d get back what was owed him. Then he’d be the one giving orders, sending whipping boys to do the dirty work and him reaping all the rewards. A smile curled his lips at the headiness of the thought. Yeah, he could handle that.

      Through the heavy downpour Ray saw the weak signal. He hit his headlights in answer. Let the contact get wet. I may be a fool, but I ain’t stupid.

      The contact, dressed all in black, yanked the rusty door open and slid into the passenger seat. “Couldn’t you have picked a drier spot?”

      “Yeah,” Ray said, exaggerating his drawl. “Guess I could’ve. But then I’d have missed a great sight. Tch, tch. Rain and leather and silk just don’t mix, do they.”

      He laughed and drew a cigar from his coat pocket. Once he lit the stogie, he took a slow drag, inhaling deeply before he deliberately blew smoke rings in his contact’s face, enjoying the action even more than the poke he’d had earlier with the new stable girl. He was the one pulling strings now. Power. There was nothing to beat sheer power. It was his birthright, and he’d get it back—no matter whose strings he had to yank to get the results he wanted.

      “Why all the secrecy?” Ray asked.

      The contact shifted to avoid the smoke. “Nobody can know I’m involved. It has to look like it’s her idea. I have just over a month to run Melissa Carnes off her land.”

      Ray stopped blowing smoke rings. Now wasn’t that interesting? Melissa Carnes would have been his last guess for this little enterprise. Oh, yeah, this was definitely his lucky day. “It’ll take me less than a day to plug a bullet in her brain. Everyone knows the witch likes to ride at night.”

      “No, you jackass! It has to look like it’s her idea to leave.”

      See if you talk to me in that tone of voice when this is over, you bottomfeeder… Ray took a long pull on the cigar. I’m in charge here. “Why?”

      “You’re paid to follow orders, not to ask questions.”

      “I like to understand the psychology behind the job.” And see how it fits with my game plan.

      The contact reached over and scrunched Ray’s shirt collar in a tangle of fingers. “Understand this—if you don’t do things my way, you don’t get paid. Got it?”

      Ray pushed away the powerless grip. The nerve of this pawn to think he had any say over the direction of play. “All right, don’t have a hissy fit.”

      I’m in charge, Ray reminded himself. He couldn’t hide the smile coming from deep inside, and he tasted once more the sweet flavor of power. His power over people like the contact; people who usually considered him scum.

      Who was scum now?

      “So,” Ray said, blowing more smoke straight at the aristocratic nose, “what do you want?”

      “I need her running scared.” The contact paused.

      Lightning cut jagged lines across the black sky. Thunder boomed farther to the south. One of Ray’s greatest skills was reading people, and what he saw now was desperation. This desperation would buy him his crown. “I don’t come cheap.”

      “Once Melissa Carnes is off her land, you’ll get your slice.”

      “I like my cake with lots of icing.” Ray savored the thought, the power. His, all his.

      “There’s enough to go around.”

      Ray blew another string of smoke rings and marveled at their perfection. “Did you read about the mason who broke his leg at the witch’s castle?”

      “What does that have to do with anything?”

      “Ever heard of the telephone game?”

      “I don’t get it.”

      Of course not. “How do you get rid of a witch?”

      Impatience wrenched the contact’s pretty features into their true plug-ugliness, so Ray gave the brainless cockroach its answer. “With a witch-hunt.”

      Chapter Two

      A noise disturbed Melissa’s gloomy thoughts. Her ears, tuned by years of living nearly alone in her immense castle, picked up the discordant sound. She listened, wary, then plopped her paintbrush into a jar of water. Someone was at the gatehouse.

      The same thing happened every year around this time. The seasonal storms and the threat of tornadoes made a perfect backdrop for the dares and counterdares of local high-school kids. What could be more ghoulish than catching a glimpse of the witch when the heavens roiled with evil?

      Why couldn’t they leave her alone? What had she ever done to them?

      Fists tight at her sides, she marched down the creaky