The Night is Forever. Heather Graham
she’d told him with mock-seriousness. “The way to handle ghosts is by not acknowledging the dead. You keep walking as if you’re in a hurry. You step over bodies along the way—ah, I’ve got it. Pretend you’re a stereotypical New Yorker. You march forward with an agenda at all times, walking briskly, and for the love of God, you never make eye contact.”
“Hey, some of my best friends are New Yorkers!” Malachi said, laughing.
Malachi had always had a sense of humor—and he’d always been tough. He’d gone into police work, and now he was with the FBI. She’d called him hysterically after the authorities had come to claim Marcus’s body, and he’d been so helpful. He’d made her understand that the federal government had to be invited in when there wasn’t a major crime that involved perpetrators crossing state lines, a kidnapping or circumstances in which local authorities had requested assistance.
Never once, however, had he suggested that she was making things up to save the Horse Farm, or that she was overwrought. He’d promised her that he would find a way to help her. “I’m not sure if I’m the right one to come out there at this point. Too many people are aware that I’m your cousin, and it’ll immediately appear as if you’re asking for outside help,” he’d told her. “Good way to piss off the local cops.”
She didn’t care about appearances. She wished Malachi had come.
The most bizarre thing was that Marcus Danby—or the ghost of Marcus Danby—was speaking much more easily than she seemed capable of doing at the moment.
Olivia managed to take a sip of her tea. She stilled her shattered nerves, took a deep breath and spoke to him. “Marcus, there was an autopsy.”
“I know. Ugh!” Marcus said, grimacing, a shiver racing visibly through his body. “Yes, no one’s fault—accidental death and all that.”
“And drugs were found in your system.”
“That’s just it, Liv. I swore, so many years ago, that I’d never touch drugs again as long as I lived. I wasn’t tempted. I didn’t hit what they call a trigger situation. I was a happy man.”
“So?”
“Okay, here was my day. I got up, had my coffee. Came by the Horse Farm. I love this time of year—not cold yet, not hot like summer. Sammy was playful. I was going to go for a ride and then I decided on a walk so I could take him along. Suddenly, not far from the ravine, Sammy starts wagging his tail, then barking like crazy. He raced off toward the grove of trees west of the ravine and he didn’t come back. So I called out to him and followed him, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground. I didn’t feel pain. I was just...on the ground.” He paused as if taking a deep breath.
He couldn’t have been taking a breath. He wasn’t alive. Olivia took another sip of her tea. She’d be heading into her kitchen for the brandy in a minute.
“You were on the ground,” she said, encouraging him to continue.
“I don’t know if I was hit in the head, if... I just don’t know. At first, there was nothing. And then...then I was on a high like you wouldn’t believe, and I knew I was in trouble. I got up and started walking and then...I felt a shove at my back and I fell and you know the rest of it!”
“So you believe that someone intentionally drugged you?”
“Yes. Not to mention the part about killing me.”
“I told the police you would never have intentionally relapsed, Marcus. I’ve sworn it, I’ve defended you, I...I called my cousin.”
“Malachi?”
“He’s an FBI agent, Marcus.”
“And he’s coming out here?”
“Ah, no. But he’s working on something. After I talked to Malachi and he promised to get someone here, I found out that we have a federal agent showing up as a client tomorrow. I’m sure he’s the help Malachi’s sending.”
“Why doesn’t Malachi come himself? Why doesn’t he tell you things directly?”
“He’s with the government. Those guys are all paranoid, I think,” Olivia muttered. “Anyway, it’s complicated, Marcus. People in this area know that we’re cousins. Some of them know Malachi. Like you. Sorry, I mean, you knew him—”
“It’s all right. Go on.”
“You can’t just step on the toes of the local police. So Malachi’s managed to get a big shot to believe that something’s wrong here, and they’re sending someone out. Under the guise of a client.”
Marcus remained somber but he nodded and looked at her with hope in his eyes. “Thanks, Liv. You have to solve this. The Horse Farm is a one-of-a-kind place. We work with addicts, with autistic and Down syndrome kids, with burned-out adults, the severely depressed.... But you know all that. And you know that it was always my way to make amends and to help others live quality lives and...you love the Horse Farm, too,” he finished.
“I’ll do everything I can, Marcus,” she promised. She closed her eyes for a minute.
When she opened them, Marcus was gone.
Great. In death, Marcus—always the most polite of men—had suddenly decided to be rude.
3
Dustin arrived at the Horse Farm. There was a massive sign on the narrow paved road that led to a long dirt drive, a sign announcing that he’d reached the Horse Farm.
It was an impressive place. Acres of rolling fields surrounded it, gorgeous hills crested in the background and rich forests stood beyond the pastures and meadows. When he got there, he saw that to the right of the drive were the massive stables, painted a cheerful bright red. To the left was the office and rec building; it, too, was large, but built ranch-style with only one story. Parking in the dusty drive out front, he headed for the office. Opening the door, he found old western furniture, walls covered with prints, paintings and newspaper clippings of horses, and overstuffed leather sofas. He saw a games room with people playing Ping-Pong and heard the whack, whack, whack of the ball going back and forth. A young woman breezed by him with a quick “Hello!” and hurried on to the back. “I’m challenging the winner!” she called.
A woman in her mid-or late thirties stepped aside to allow the young blonde to move past, to the games room. She shook her head but smiled tolerantly.
“Sorry, Mama Cheever!” the younger woman said.
“It’s fine, Liz. Go save your spot.” There was something both matronly and businesslike about her. She wore western-style boots, jeans and a colorful cotton shirt. She’d seen Dustin arrive and was coming toward him. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Maybe that was it. She had a long, sharp-featured face that rather resembled a giraffe’s.
“Agent Blake?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Sandra, Sandra Cheever. Or Mama Cheever, as you heard, which I still don’t get. I don’t cuddle patients, don’t tuck them in—I don’t even brew tea, for God’s sake. But I do handle the paperwork and the scheduling around here. We have everything we need except your signature for the files. These days—especially working with animals—we have to get waivers. But your office took care of everything else.”
“That’s great. What do I do? Where do I start? I’m ready to sign.”
Hands on her hips, she cast her head at an angle to study him.
“It’s good to hear your enthusiasm,” she told him. “I was afraid you’d be hostile to the situation—that it was a ‘come here or lose your job’ scenario.”
“I’m from Nashville, but you know that. You probably know everything about me,” Dustin said. “And I love horses. This sounded better than any other offer I’ve had, so yep. I’m enthusiastic.”
“Excellent.