It was easy to believe that an addict had fallen back into drugs. It happened. Some relapsed and returned to therapy or recovered through their own determination and resolve.
But not Marcus! Marcus couldn’t have relapsed.
She began to feel saturated by the heat and decided she was about to wrinkle for life. Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, drying herself before slipping into her terry robe. Hurrying downstairs, she went back to the kitchen, ready to make a cup of tea. Rounding the stairs, she noticed that Sammy was quiet, just sitting there, staring at the front door.
“At last!”
Stunned and terrified, her heart pounding, she whirled toward the door. Her hand flew to her throat as she desperately wondered what weapon she might grab to defend herself.
But no one had come to attack her.
The speaker was Marcus Danby.
Or the ghost of Marcus Danby.
“Good Lord, woman! What were you doing up there? I mean, just how clean can someone be?” Marcus demanded. He moved toward her as he spoke. “Oh, come on! You saw me before. You see me quite well right now, just like you’ve always been able to see General Cunningham and Loki. You think I didn’t know? Of course I do! You’re like a ghost magnet, my dear girl. Close your mouth—your lower jaw’s going to fall off. Please, Olivia,” he said in a gentler voice. “I need your help. The Horse Farm needs your help.”
2
Stepping off the plane and entering Nashville International Airport, Dustin heard the twangs and strains of a country music song. The sound made him smile. God, he loved Nashville. The city was unique in its mix of the up-and-coming and pride in its history. Music reigned supreme but without self-consciousness; it was ever-present like the air one breathed. People tended to be cordial. And, hell, what was not to like about an airport that had a coffee stand and the welcoming sound of good music the minute he arrived?
He paused for a minute, listening, feeling the buzz of activity around him. In the past decade he’d lived in a number of different places but there was nothing like Nashville and nothing like coming home.
He picked up the paperwork for his rental car, then walked out of the airport and over to the multistoried garage to pick up the SUV he’d rented. A few minutes later, he was following the signs for I-40. Soon he was headed off the highway to a Tennessee state road, passing ranches, acreages with herds of grazing cows and pastures where horses kicked up their heels and ran or nibbled at the blue-green grass.
A little while later, he was on the dirt path that led to Willis House—the “retreat” where he had reservations. Willis House catered to those attending therapy at the Horse Farm and other nearby facilities. It wasn’t a specialized facility, but advertisements for the inn stated that it was a “clean” environment in the “exquisite and serene” Tennessee hills. People didn’t just come here because it was a “clean-living facility,” though. They also chose it because the area was so beautiful, or because they were visiting family or friends who were in therapy nearby.
The gravel drive was huge; there was certainly no problem with parking out here. He slid between a big truck and a small one and noted that the other cars in the lot included a nice new Jag, a Volvo, a BMW and a sad-looking twenty-year-old van.
Willis House was...a house. There was a broad porch with rockers, and he noted an old-timer sitting in one of them, staring as he approached.
“Hello,” Dustin said. The man wore denim overalls and a plaid flannel shirt. His face showed deep grooves of a life gone past.
The man nodded to him. “You the cop?” he asked.
“Agent, now,” Dustin replied. He shifted his bag onto his shoulder and came forward to shake the old man’s hand. “Dustin Blake, sir. How do you do?”
The man took his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Jeremy Myers—but they call me Coot. Welcome. You don’t look like someone who needs much help.”
“We all need help,” Dustin said.
That brought a slight smile to Coot’s lips. “Burned out on the job? Or did you go wacko and beat up on some piece of scum that deserved it? Young man, that’s the thing today. No respect. Kids spit in teachers’ faces and the poor teachers can’t do a thing—less’n it gets called child abuse. So, you did your job too well?”
Dustin grinned. “Something like that.”
“No need to explain to me. You’ll have plenty of time to talk. Hell, all people ’round here want you to do is talk. Don’t let me keep you, though. That bag must be heavy.”
“Nice to meet you, Coot,” Dustin said.
“Just open the door and go on in. The main house is open until sunset, and after that you’ll need your key.”
“Thanks.” Dustin went in. It might have been any bed-and-breakfast in any rural section of the South. The entry led to a bright, cheerful parlor with the check-in desk being a bar, behind which was an equally bright and cheerful kitchen. He walked up and the young woman at the desk smiled.
“You must be Agent Blake,” she said.