In Search of Truth Read online

  As Alex imagined waking up in his own cabin on the beach/in the mountains/riding the range, his cell buzzed. The room was dark, but the phone’s light shone a bluish-white. The text was in black.

  He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His boots hit the floor with a thud and he reread the message.

  Brother, we need to meet. A.

  Nononononono. Alex shook the phone like a magic eight ball, as if that would make Aidan’s message disappear. Except his brother’s words lingered, demanding a response.

  What did one say to a brother who’d known, the entire fucking time, that the man you’d been convicted of murdering was still alive?

  Brother.

  Alex paused in the typing to come up with the right words. Something elegant and unique for this oh-so-special occasion. Fuck. You.

  Chapter 5

  Isabel Rutledge unlocked the Saint Philip’s cemetery gate and entered the east churchyard. With the streetlights twenty feet away and only a few spotlights in the trees, the area provided plenty of dark shadows. There were no alarms or cameras. No tourists, like those across the street.

  As usual, there was a ghost tour guide with a group of people in front of Pirate House. One of the oldest homes in the city, it also stood next to Saint Philip’s west churchyard. The one where they used to bury strangers. At this time of night, since all of the ghost action happened in the west churchyard, no one paid attention to the east.

  She slipped the key into her purse and sat on an iron bench behind a gnarled oak tree. She deliberately stayed away from the earth-moving equipment that’d been digging along the back of the cemetery. The last thing she needed was to fall into an open grave.

  Even though it was late, the humidity made her dress cling. She closed her eyes and slipped off her high heels. Her feet hurt and her back ached. But that was nothing compared to the migraine brewing behind her eyes. Her plan had yet to succeed. That meant consequences.

  The kind of consequences that had killed Hezekiah tonight.

  A breeze blew and she raised her face, hoping to catch the cooler air. Sirens sounded in the distance, and she smelled smoke. While in the cab she’d heard the explosion. It’d been closer than she would’ve liked, but she’d hired a new crew and there were kinks. The irony was if the ambulance sirens hadn’t been cutting through the air, it would’ve been a pleasant evening.

  “I’m assuming, from the noise, that Hezekiah is dead?”

  She opened her eyes at the male voice and straightened her shoulders. Remiel came closer, pausing near an eight-foot-tall marble column covered in vines. Tonight Remiel wore a tuxedo with his black hair combed back from his forehead.

  “Of course Hezekiah is dead.” She tried hard to the keep the duh out of her voice. “He sold the Witch’s Examination of Mercy Chastain to the Prince. He knew the risks.”

  “I wasn’t expecting so much…attention.”

  “You’re the one who suggested Clayborne and his crew.”

  Even in the shadows, she felt Remiel’s frustrated glance. It burned with the coldest regard she’d ever encountered.

  Remiel picked a wild daisy from a cluster near his feet and pulled off the petals one by one. “Did you see any Fianna warriors?”

  “Two. In the club. I didn’t approach them.” Because she wasn’t stupid. “I know you hate loud noises and high body counts. There was no way to save the driver without tipping off Hezekiah.”

  “The only reason I’ve come as far as I have is because I’ve kept things quiet.” He threw down the daisy stem and picked another. “Nothing screams villain in town like dead bodies.”

  She almost brought up the Afghan POW camp where he’d held—and tortured—many of Kells Torridan’s men for years, but no good came from contradicting Remiel. Instead, she studied the tourists across the street. They were all looking up at the top floor window of Pirate House. Except for the light next to the front door, the windows and the small alley leading to the back garden were dark. “There’s been a development.”

  Remiel threw away the petal-less flower and sat next to her. “What happened?”

  The tourists pointed at the house, and Isabel squinted. Was that a shadow in the window?

  She shook her head and made her confession. “Stuart sold the Witch’s Examination of Mercy Chastain to pay for the Pirate’s Grille, and it now belongs to Allison. I couldn’t rip it out of her hands.”

  “I thought you said we don’t need the Pirate’s Grille.” Remiel’s exhalation could have been heard by the dead. As long as he didn’t stare at his left palm—a tic of his that preceded an episode—she’d be okay. So far, during all the years she’d worked for him, he’d never attacked her. But he was volatile, and a girl had to play the game well to survive.

  “We don’t. But I would’ve preferred no one else have it either.”

  “Allison has the Pirate’s Grille, and the Prince has the Witch’s Examination of Mercy Chastain. And you don’t think that’s a problem? Even though you’ve yet to find the treasure?”

  “I’m not worried about Allison or the Prince. Hezekiah told me the Witch’s Examination is missing the appendix. It’s the appendix, along with the Pirate’s Grille, that are the keys to finding the treasure. Since we already know where it’s buried—approximately—none of it matters.”

  Remiel stood again to pace around the small tombstones in front of her. “Does the Prince know the appendix is missing?”

  “I’m not sure, but I assume he does.” When Remiel frowned, she added, “The Prince has no idea how close we are. By the time he does, we and the treasure will be gone.”

  “Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?” Remiel went back to leaning against the marble column and stared across the street. Now the tour guide had moved his group to the cemetery gates next to Pirate House. They were all pointing, probably convinced they’d seen a ghost. “You’ve yet to find that treasure.”

  “That kind of excavation takes time.”

  “We don’t have time. Are you sure Stuart wasn’t lying to you? You betrayed and tortured him.”

  Before you killed him. “He gave me the information before things became difficult.”

  “We need that treasure, Isabel. If you can’t dig it up, I’ll find someone who can.”

  She stood, appreciating the feel of the cooler ground on her bare feet. “Are you replacing me as your second-in-command?”

  “I don’t want to. But I will.”

  “I’ll find that treasure.” She pulled out the heavy brooch that hung on a chain around her neck. “I did make one mistake.”

  She didn’t want to confess this, but if she didn’t and he found out, he’d consider it a betrayal. And those didn’t end with sunshine and daffodils.

  He peered at her. “Excuse me?”

  “I held the Pirate’s Grille in my hand knowing that if I could destroy it, no one besides us could ever find that treasure. When Hezekiah yanked it away, I was frustrated. I told Allison about my affair with Stuart.”

  Remiel reached for the brooch, and the sapphire-and-diamond pendant shimmered. The clouds parted and the half moon illuminated his soulless blue eyes. “Why?”

  She fought against ripping the jewelry out of his hands. He knew why. “I was angry.”

  “No, you allowed jealousy to ruin your judgement.”

  “I am not, nor have I ever been, jealous of Allison. Allison is a simple, weak woman who couldn’t love a man to save anyone’s life.”

  “‘The lady doth protest.’” He dropped the necklace into Isabel’s neckline, his tone of voice low.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Tremaine is in town. He was following Allison.”

  Remiel turned away again to watch the tourists now taking photos of the cemetery, flashes set on high. Even in the dim light, she saw his shoulder muscles flex benea
th the tuxedo jacket. With the hours he spent in the gym, he had the kind of physique that made men jealous and women swoon—until they figured out he was a psychotic fuck. “It’s unfortunate I couldn’t take Tremaine out of play seven years ago. He was outside the club tonight and you didn’t notice.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I had someone follow you.”

  She bit her lower lip. “Who?”

  “Clayborne.”

  “You’re using my own crew against me?”

  “Clayborne is desperate for extra money.”

  “Desperate men don’t make great allies.” Her dealings with the Fianna, past and present, had taught her that.

  “No. They make dirty ones. We’re at a critical point. We need to find that treasure before the Prince realizes what we’re doing.”

  “We’re close.”

  “But we haven’t succeeded. That means, besides digging for treasure, you must find the appendix or recover the Pirate’s Grille. Take one or both out of play. Your position in my organization depends on your imminent success.” He reached for her hand and held it to his lips. Instead of kissing it, he squeezed until her knuckles turned white. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Will Tremaine be a problem?”

  She cleared her throat and withdrew her hand. It ached, but she’d never show weakness in front of him. He’d lose all the respect she’d worked so hard to earn. “No. Allison is incapable of that kind of trust.”

  Remiel, always the restless one, paced again, clenching and unclenching his fists. It wasn’t a tic, just a sign of his brilliant mind thinking and plotting. His ability to play the mental chess game against Kells and the Prince always amazed her. “Have you seen Alex Mitchell?”

  Now that was an unexpected question. In her own best self-interest, she kept her voice even. “No.”

  “You should renew your friendship.”

  “Why?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “If the Prince finds the appendix, we’ll need leverage.”

  “Alex isn’t useful leverage. The Prince allowed Alex to rot in prison for years. The Prince wouldn’t trade anything for Alex.”

  “The Prince will never allow anyone to hurt his brother.”

  “Alex is a highly trained soldier who survived years in Leedsville, the army’s secret, most secure, most brutal prison. He’s not going to allow you to kidnap him.” She waved a hand around the churchyard as if that would make Remiel remember what she couldn’t forget. “Alex almost killed you the last time you two met.”

  “Just consider it.” Remiel traced the curve of her cheek. His finger was so cold she shivered. “I wish you hadn’t told Allison about your affair.”

  Isabel turned her head slightly, just enough for Remiel to drop his hand. “Allison treated Stuart horribly. She deserves the pain.”

  “Be careful,” he whispered. “Your love for Stuart is showing.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “And for fuck’s sake, stay away from men who bow.”

  Once he left the churchyard, she sat again. The tourists huddled around the guide and a police car with blue and red blinking lights pulled up next to them.

  Her heart skipped around in her chest with that tight, uneasy feeling she despised—the uneasy feeling that told her Remiel was withholding information. The uneasy feeling that Remiel realized how much she had loved Stuart and what she’d been willing to do for him. The uneasy feeling that told her things were not only spinning out of her control, but also that if she didn’t succeed—imminently—there would be consequences.

  The uneasy feeling that told her she might possibly need an exit strategy.

  Chapter 6

  Allison paid the driver and got out of the cab in front of Pinckney House. She slammed the door, annoyed at the time it’d taken her to get home. The driver had assumed she was a clueless tourist and driven toward the airport. Once he realized she was a local, he deducted the extra cost and apologized.

  When she stepped onto the flagstone sidewalk, she hit a wall of heat and humidity. Her lungs filled with air scented by gardenias and damp bricks. She loved summertime in Charleston.

  At least she used to.

  As she walked up the pathway to her house, a five-story white building with Doric columns and wraparound porches on the first three floors, trying not to think about the fact that she’d almost kissed Zack or that Stuart had been unfaithful or that the Fianna were back in her life, she noticed a police car had parked under a streetlamp. Detective Hugh Waring hurried over to open the iron gate.

  “Mrs. Pinckney.” He followed her and latched the gate behind him. Despite the heat, he wore a tan poplin jacket over a white button-down shirt and jeans. Beneath a lapel, a gun rested in a worn leather holster. “I need to talk to you.”

  She led the way up the steps to her porch. “Is everything alright?”

  “I wanted to let you know—” His phone buzzed. He frowned as he read the text. “There’s been an incident down by the river.”

  Now that he mentioned it, she had heard sirens. “I think I smell smoke.”

  At that moment, the streetlamps and other house lights around them dimmed, then came back on. He shoved his phone into his back pocket.

  “I wish I knew what was up with this city’s power grid. I lost power for two hours this afternoon and had to hang my laundry to dry in the garden.” She was waiting for her neighbors to complain. Line drying wasn’t allowed.

  “I agree,” he said as he returned a text. “It’s unsettling.”

  She sat in one of the porch rocking chairs. “You wanted to tell me something?”

  Detective Waring leaned against the railing and crossed his arms. “I got a call earlier.” While he spoke, his brown eyes scanned the perimeter, and his foot tapped on the plank floor. His hair stuck up in odd sections, like he’d been running his hands through it. “About Pirate House.”

  The Pirate House, one of the two oldest in the city, belonged to Allison—a gift from her deceased maternal grandmother. “What about it?”

  “The call came from a ghost tour guide. While she was telling stories about the house to tourists, someone saw something in the upstairs window. I went there and…it’s the darnedest thing.”

  “Please don’t tell me you saw the ghost of Mercy Chastain.” Allison tried not to sound exasperated. “Ghosts are the work of overactive imaginations that lead to mass hysteria and tragedies like the Salem witch trials.”

  He smiled. “And the witch trial of Mercy Chastain here in Charleston? Wasn’t she your ancestor?”

  “Yes.” Allison clasped her hands in her lap and got back on topic. “What happened when you saw…whatever you saw?”

  “I told the tourists to go home and that I’d investigate. I went into the Pirates Courtyard behind the house. There were no signs of forced entry. As I left, I passed the cemetery next door and saw…”

  “Good grief.” She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “A woman in a white gown in the back shadows of the cemetery.”

  “In the dark? Behind the locked gates? With these crazy dimming streetlights?”

  He shrugged and the jacket stretched so tightly across his wide shoulders she wondered if the seams would hold. “Her white gown made her seem like she was floating. Since the gates were locked, I couldn’t get in to check it out.” His voice lowered to a hush. “It was creepy.”

  “Detective—”

  “I know.” He waved his arm like he was swatting gnats. “I don’t believe in the paranormal. But this was strange.”

  She stood and offered a polite smile. “Imagination is a powerful thing, Detective Waring. I have no doubt whatever you saw tonight was disturbing, but it wasn’t the ghost of Mercy Chastain. She disappeared centuries ago.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ll check out your prop
erty and say goodbye before I leave.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” Since Stuart’s murder, Detective Waring had been doing nightly drive-bys.

  “It won’t take long.” He gave her a half smile. “Besides, I’m not ready to go back to the station.”

  She smiled back because she understood. He was a new detective, from Boston, who’d admitted the move to Charleston hadn’t been an easy one. “Thank you.”

  When he disappeared around the back, she breathed in the warm, night air and faced her home. White lights outlined the mansion’s columns, green shutters flanked the windows, and pink flowers overflowed the boxes attached to the balconies. She loved Pinckney House, as well as the gardens, which encompassed a city block. Except tonight, despite the fact that her home had always offered the comfort and security she craved, the house felt dark and empty.

  She closed her eyes and tried to breathe through the tight feeling in her chest. A few hours ago, her home wanted her, welcomed her. Now that she knew the truth about Stuart and Isabel’s affair, Pinckney House seemed cool and uninviting.

  “Allison?”

  She squinted until she saw a man standing in the porch shadows. Zack? “What are you doing here?”

  He came close enough that she heard the rustling of his black leather motorcycle jacket and felt his breath on her forehead. “Do you hear those sirens?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Despite the low light, she could see that he hadn’t shaved since the morning, and she remembered the way his scratchy face felt against hers the night, years ago, when he’d kissed her. “Why?”

  “Hezekiah Usher is dead.”

  * * *

  Zack held his fists against his thighs to stop himself from reaching for Allison. “After you left, Hezekiah’s limousine exploded.”

  “Hezekiah Usher?” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Dead? In a car bomb?”

  “Yes.” Zack’s voice cracked.